


The Edges of Things

by Happy_Schmuell, roaroftheninth



Series: The Edges of Things AU [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 131,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy_Schmuell/pseuds/Happy_Schmuell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roaroftheninth/pseuds/roaroftheninth
Summary: Just a few months after Ian and Mickey's wedding, the cartel makes its move. At first, Ian is just grateful that Mickey is alive - but he soon realizes that they aren't out of the woods yet.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: The Edges of Things AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957516
Comments: 278
Kudos: 440





	1. Burning House

**Author's Note:**

> “Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.”
> 
> ― Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
> 
> "People whisper behind our back,  
> That we're too young to run this fast.  
> But I'd run through a burning house for you,  
> If you asked me to."
> 
> ― Mackenzie Porter, If You Asked Me To
> 
> CW: Canon-compliant homophobia, drug and alcohol use, mention of sexual assault. 
> 
> This story is complete, so we'll update twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays.

The call came in just before 7. 

Ian was finishing up a 7-7 shift, not his most favourite rotation to be on. By the time he got home and had dinner, he was exhausted and ready for bed, and the day was over. Just enough time to shower, spend about ten minutes with the family, fifteen with Mickey before sleep. But today had been slow, they'd only had three calls, none of them serious, and Ian had already sent a text to Mickey telling him that they were going _out_ for dinner tonight, maybe even go for a walk, then a shower together. It bothered him more, now that they were married, when they didn't have a lot of 'quality' time together. Maybe that was stupid, maybe their day-to-day shouldn't be changed by the fact that they were legal now, but to Ian's mind, it had. 

So, when the call came in at a quarter 'til seven, when Ian was just fifteen minutes from being free, he'd groaned. He'd felt immediately bad about that - this was his _job_ and someone obviously needed help - but his initial reaction was to wonder why whoever had gotten hurt hadn't waited just a little bit longer. Of course, he'd pushed that reaction aside as soon as he'd had it, getting into the passenger side of the ambulance even as details were still coming in. Car accident - pretty standard fare for Chicago - caused by what appeared to be a drive-by - sadly, also pretty standard for the South Side - and on the way, he was mentally bracing himself, could see his partner, Kim, doing the same. Car accidents were frequently bad, and drive-bys _always_ were. It was hard not to take them home at the end of the day, hard to leave work at work. 

As he processed the information, the address they were headed to kicked in. "Shit..." he said. "That's about a half a mile from my house.”

Kim glanced over at him. She was a native Chicagoan as well and they both knew the possibility that any local call could be someone they knew. They'd not discussed it at length, but the unspoken agreement was that they'd have each other's back if either one was thrown for a minute by who they had to provide services to. The thing was - growing up, Ian had seen more than his fair share of shit in his neighborhood, a large percentage of it at his own house. So while he didn't _want_ to see someone he knew trapped inside a totaled car, he wasn't worried that he could handle it. 

"Here we go," Kim muttered as they turned a corner and were now about three blocks away, the car in question in sight. Ian could barely hear her over the siren, but he didn't need to. They'd done this routine so many times, Ian could hear her voice in his head. He sat up, started to unbuckle his seatbelt, prepared to hop out, when his hand froze on the buckle. The car, askew on the street and smoking where the front end was crumpled against a parked pick-up, looked an awful lot like the piece-of-shit beater that they'd picked up for Mickey to use to get to and from work. But it couldn't be his, he...

In split second Ian went through Mickey's schedule: work from 9-6, appointment with his P.O. at 6:20 which would take about twenty minutes, then he'd be heading home at around... 

"No, no, no," he said as he threw his seatbelt off, reaching for the door handle before they'd even reached the car. His voice must have been loud enough for Kim to hear because peripherally he saw her looking sharply over at him. 

"What?" 

"Mickey... that's Mickey's fucking car..." 

As soon as they'd slowed enough that he could safely jump out, he was out, running the last quarter block to the car, even as he could hear Kim calling after him. One of the first things that they'd been taught was that it was never a good idea to be the first responder to someone you're close to, someone in your immediate family. And until the moment he'd recognized the car, Ian had agreed. But fuck that, now. Calling Mickey's name, he ran around to the driver's side, bile rising in the back of his throat almost immediately. The car was riddled by bullets, the windshield and driver's window blown out. Mickey - who _always_ fucking refused to wear a seatbelt, Ian thought angrily, not that it would have done him any good now - was slumped forward and sideways against the console. 

_"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus... Jesus, Mickey..."_

He could hear his own voice, though it sounded like it was coming from a mile away, unsure if he was simply exclaiming or offering up some kind of desperate prayer from whatever bit of faith he may have had at one point in his life. Mickey was dead, he had to be. The cartel had obviously made their play and done the job because no one could be covered in that much blood in a car with that many bullet holes and not be dead. Rooted to the spot, he heard Kim's running footsteps coming up behind him, pushing past, reaching into the car. 

"I've got a pulse. Ian - _Ian!_ He's alive, I've got a pulse!" 

That was all it took. Jerking as if he'd been asleep standing up and her words had woken him, Ian looked at Mickey one more time. Then, he was running back to the ambulance, getting on the radio, calling for fire and rescue. There was no way that he and Kim could get Mickey from the car themselves; that wasn't safe with the majority of the car destroyed. His voice was shaking, but he got the words out, grabbing his bag after and running back to the car. 

Then, everything was a blur. The seconds flew by but also felt as though they were all moving through mud. The fire truck arrived, the door and roof of the car were removed, Mickey was taken from the wreckage - Ian somehow managed to stay standing when he saw his body with visible tears in his clothing and skin from the bullets - and put in the back of the ambulance. There was a brief argument when Kim refused to let Ian ride in the back to begin assessing Mickey's wounds, ending with Ian caving only to save time, agreeing to ride along with one of the fire department's EMTs at the wheel. 

He only got a second with him at the hospital, too, the doctors immediately taking him away. He knew it had to happen, but as they disappeared through the swinging doors with Mickey on the gurney between them, Ian couldn't shake the feeling that he'd never see his husband alive again. 

\--

Lip didn't pick up the first time that his phone rang. In fairness to him, he was on a step-ladder, carefully cutting in paint around the living room window. Fred was in his little playpen behind him, and as usual, Lip was in the middle of a mostly one-sided conversation with the kid about nothing in particular. He planned to finish around the window and then start getting Freddie ready for bed, which was pretty much how his days went lately - work at the shop, maybe head to a meeting, work on the house, bedtime for Fred. It kept him busy, which was great, and tired him out, which was even better; he didn't have much spare time to think about doing anything stupid.

When the phone rang again, Lip craned over to try and read the display where his phone sat on the edge of the coffee table. He didn't recognize the number.

"What do you think?" He asked Fred. "Telemarketer?" 

Fred had nothing of note to say on the subject. He made his feelings known by tossing a toy out of the pen.

Carefully balancing his paint brush on top of the plastic container that was half-full of paint, Lip climbed down off the step-ladder, wiping his hands on his jeans just in case before he reached for the phone.

"Yeah?"

Someone took a breath on the other end. "Hi. Lip? It's Kim. I work with Ian. We met at the - "

"The barbecue, yeah. Did something happen to Ian?" Lip couldn't imagine why else she would be calling; his whole body had tensed up.

"No," she said hastily. "No, Ian is fine. But we had a call to an accident a few minutes ago. It was Mickey."

Lip let out a breath. "Fuck. Is he dead?" Maybe not the most delicate question, he realized after he said it, but it wasn't exactly a situation that called for delicate.

"No." Kim hesitated, and Lip read between the lines: _Not yet._ "But Ian's a mess. I asked him what he needed and he said to call you."

"Alright. Tell him I'm coming."

Lip hung up without waiting for anything else. 

"Lip?" Tami was standing in the living room doorway. Lip didn't know how much she had overheard, but she looked worried and he figured that she had gotten the gist.

"Mickey was in an accident." He was already looking for his jacket. "I have to go and see Ian. Can you put Fred down?"

"Yeah, of course." Tami deftly pulled the jacket out from under a paint tray and handed it to him. "Is everyone okay?"

Lip shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. Look, I'll text you when I get there, alright?" 

Tami watched him stuff his wallet and phone into his pockets. "You need me to call everyone?"

"Uh, yeah." He hadn't had time for it to occur to him yet, that someone should tell Debbie and Carl and Liam. "Thanks." 

"Drive safe," she called after him. She had said that before, but this time, it felt a little heavier in the air between them.

When he arrived at the hospital, Lip wedged the bike into a spot between two cars that probably wasn't really a parking spot but was close to the entrance to the emergency room. When he came bolting into the building, he immediately scanned for red hair.

"Ian?"

Lip’s voice seemed to cut through a fog for Ian, who was standing nearby. He turned around, more just following the sound than having any real sense of where Lip, or anything, was. 

"Lip." 

Ian’s voice didn't sound like his own, and he had no idea how to even convey to his brother what had happened. He hadn't been able to sit. He'd been offered chairs, offered coffee, offered water, offered a candy bar (all by Kim who knew that he shouldn't go without eating, who knew what stress had the potential to do to him when combined with his bipolar) but he'd turned it all down. What was he supposed to do, have high fucking _tea_ while Mickey was just a few feet down a corridor in an operating room possibly (probably, could not be) dying? He wasn't sure what time it was, how long they'd been there. He'd been holding it together relatively well until he'd looked down and seen blood on his hands, even caked around his wedding ring, smeared on the front of his uniform. Mickey's blood. After that, he'd had trouble focusing his gaze on anything or anyone.

"Mickey... there was an accident." He could feel his throat tightening but he sure as fuck wasn't going to cry. Crying was for when someone died, and Mickey wasn't going to die. He cleared his throat then lowered his voice, hands fisted at his sides to keep hold of what little control he had left. "It was the cartel. Had to be." 

Lip's heart turned over when he saw all of the blood on Ian's clothes and hands, even though his brain caught up almost immediately and he knew that it wasn't his brother's blood. He went to where Ian stood and gripped him by the biceps for a moment, looking at his face. The two of them had always been the closest, out of all of their siblings. Lip knew Ian better than he knew anyone else. He wanted to give him a hug, but he also had read immediately that Ian was holding it together only tenuously. He spent a moment worried about doing anything that would tip him over the edge, but the look in Ian's eyes was painful and in the end he couldn't help but to pull him into a hug. 

"Kim told me about the accident. You tell the cops it was the cartel?" 

Ian didn't resist the hug but he didn't hug Lip back. He couldn't. What he did do was laugh. 

"You kidding? Cops haven't even been here yet. Shooting on the South Side? Not exactly a priority." 

He wrenched himself away from Lip as a wave of anger washed over him. He was self-aware enough at this point in his life to know that, now that Lip's arrival had shaken him out of the shock, he was likely going to go careening into anger as the outlet for all of what he was feeling. But he also knew that he wouldn't be able to control it if he gave any room to it, so the best course of action was to stop it before the dam burst. 

"He was half a mile from home, for fuck's sake. They were waiting for him, had to be. They fucking - _planned_ it." In a burst of emotion, Ian gripped the back of one of the chairs, giving it a hard slam down into the floor, then turning to stride a couple of paces away, reining himself back in. "I thought he was dead. I looked in that car and he - " He shook his head, unable to finish. 

Lip had never been a particular fan of Mickey's, but seeing him smashed up in a car wreck was not something that he would wish on Ian, or anyone. Frankly, they had all lived through more than enough horror without adding any more into the mix. "Yeah," he agreed, sounding as grim as he felt. "Sounds like nightmare fuel." 

Lip hadn't made any move toward stopping Ian from taking his feelings out on the furniture, and now he just hung back, watching him. He hoped that the other people in this waiting room also had the sense to keep their mouths shut. 

"You think they'll come back and finish the job?"

That was the question that, to him, had the most urgency. If word got around that Mickey wasn't dead, Lip didn't think that a bunch of Mexican gangsters would hesitate to kill Ian if he got in their way - which would mean, of course, that Lip would also have to get in their way. Ian definitely wouldn't leave Mickey and Lip wasn't about to leave Ian to face that on his own.

"Not if I get to them first." 

There was heat behind Ian's words, but not the kind that would cause Lip to actually be concerned that he was planning to go running off half-cocked to find an entire cartel. It was just easier to say that than to put the terror that was gripping him inside into words. 

"I need to call his boss. He's supposed to work tomorrow. I've got his..." 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out Mickey's phone, given to him after the firefighters had gotten him out of the car. The screen was cracked and when he pressed the button to open it up, revealing the most ridiculous picture of the two of them that Ian could remember seeing as the wallpaper, he saw the blood that was smudged across it. 

"I can't think of his name," he finally managed to say, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "I'll call later." 

"Okay." Lip nodded slightly. The fact that Mickey had to work tomorrow was probably the least of their worries, but he also knew what it was like to focus on something small because the something big was too much to deal with all at once. "If you remember, I can give him a call."

He gestured at Ian's bloody shirt. "You want to take that off? You can have mine." Lip was wearing a t-shirt under a checked button-down and a jacket; he figured he had enough layers on to share. Glancing around, he added, "They got a bathroom right over there. You can go in and change your shirt. And, uh. Wash your hands. I'll stay out here, in case they come out with any news. Okay?"

He doubted that there would be any news about Mickey imminently, unless it was the kind Ian was dreading. Not wanting to give Ian ample time to worry about that, Lip quickly took off his jacket, removed the button down, and held it out to Ian. "Hopefully it fits, Sasquatch."

Ian had been watching him, not saying a word, but now his expression changed, and he shook his head, stepping away, looking at Lip like he'd lost his mind. 

"I'm not taking this off," he said. And he sure as hell wasn't washing his hands either. What if the worst happened, and Mickey died? The blood on his hands and his shirt, in a matter of hours or even minutes, might be all that he had left of his husband. He wasn't going to wash that all away, not yet. Was that reasonable? Maybe not, but he did not fucking care. 

Lip eyed him for a split second, as if determining whether to press the issue, but he accepted Ian's refusal with nothing more than a nod and laid the shirt next to the jacket on a nearby chair, in case Ian changed his mind. 

Ian exhaled slowly, relieved that Lip didn't push. He wasn't about to have that conversation in this room with strangers waiting with worries of their own. 

"So, Tami let you out of the house, huh?" Ian’s heart wasn't in the joke, but he had to say something. 

"Smart-ass," Lip responded. "Yeah, she said she was gonna call everyone. Debbie'll probably tell Sandy. I don't know if, uh. You have a way of getting a hold of Mandy." He said it almost carefully.

"I do," he said, nodding. "But, um. Should probably wait at least until he's out of surgery to call her, when we know something more concrete. It's not good for her to get too many phone calls from back here. Hey, I might need you to run to the house for me. Gotta take my meds. I keep some in the truck but I didn't think to grab them." If - when - Mickey woke up and heard that Ian had missed a dose, he'd have his ass, hospital bed or not.

"Yeah, okay." Lip reached out and gently squeezed Ian's shoulder. It was always a little bit of a relief to have it confirmed, especially in difficult situations, that Ian was staying on top of his medication - that he _wanted_ to take care of himself. Lip knew that Mickey played no small role in that and he was grateful for it. It had not been a foregone conclusion that Ian would find a way to settle into a normal, mundane, daily routine with someone who took good care of him. Lip would never be the one to tell him how to live his life, but he was pretty fucking glad that Ian was making good decisions these days.

"You need me to grab anything else?" He asked. "I can stop and pick up some burgers. Toothbrush, if you're staying here overnight? And, uh. Maybe a change of clothes for you and Mickey for the morning?"

"Toothbrush would be good," Ian replied. He hadn't brushed his teeth since about six that morning. "Um... yeah, clothes for Mickey. Maybe sweats? Some clean socks? He's - he's definitely gonna be in for a few days." Maybe longer. "He'll need comfortable things. Maybe... maybe grab him mine, not his. He wears them a lot, even though they're too long. And his pillow. It's the one on the outside of the bed." It might be a while before Mickey woke up; the blood loss alone was a serious problem, Ian knew. When he did, Ian wanted him to have familiar things there, some small comfort. "You can grab jeans or something for me, whatever you see first on the floor." 

"Alright." Lip nodded, committing Ian's list to memory. "You got it." 

He took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. He had a text from Tami letting him know that she had called the others, and another one from Carl that said he was on his way. At least Ian wouldn't be alone for long. 

"I'll be back soon. Text me if they give you any updates. Okay?"

"Will do." 

The next few hours were gray. It was the only way Ian could describe it. Carl showed up, Lip returned. Ian took his meds, forced down a burger only because he had to, still with bloody hands, not that Ian even really noticed. He didn't change clothes and he never managed to sit for more than a minute or two. He knew his state and his pacing were unnerving, but it wasn't something of much concern. 

Eventually, finally, a doctor appeared, with faint creases on his face from wearing a mask. When he first asked for, "Mr. Gallagher's family," it took Ian a minute to even realize he was talking about Mickey. They'd only recently made the name change legal. 

"I'm his husband," he said, getting up from the chair he'd only just taken a seat in, trying to read the doctor's face, steeling himself as best as he could for the worst. "Is he okay? Is he going to be okay?"

Lip got up and stood behind Ian, Carl not far behind. The doctor surveyed their faces before he spoke. 

"The short answer is: He's alive. That's all we can say for sure right now. He's out of surgery and resting. We'll be monitoring him closely over the next few days."

Lip frowned. He hadn't been able to read the doctor's face at all, and now he couldn't tell if this was good news or not.

"Is he gonna wake up?" That was Carl, who never shied away from the tough stuff. 

"We don't know," the doctor admitted. "He sustained some serious head trauma. We dealt with the bleeding in his brain but we don't know the extent of the damage yet. We also took two bullets out of his arm. If all goes well, those shouldn't leave permanent damage beyond some scarring."

Ian was grateful to have Lip and Carl there, because as soon as he heard 'bleeding in his brain', he had gone very still and cold. Did that _ever_ amount to anything good?

Lip settled a hand very gently on Ian's back. "Can Ian go in and see him?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you through."

When the doctor said he could see him, Ian's first reaction was to look down at how he was dressed before he reminded himself that Mickey wasn't awake, so he wouldn't be upset about the blood. 

"That's, um. That's good, about his arm," he said as he and the doctor headed to Mickey's recovery room, desperate to cling to any positive news. He'd asked Lip and Carl to stay in the waiting room, knowing seeing Mickey would be hard, wanting to do it in private. 

As soon as he entered the room, he knew that he'd made the right choice. Mickey was covered in bandages, hooked up to an IV and a number of machines, far more still than he had ever seen Mickey be, even in sleep. He approached the bed, taking Mickey's hand in his, and it was then that the emotion, the fear, that he'd been holding back took over. Bending at the waist, like he had no strength left to hold himself up, he buried his face in the blanket covering Mickey's leg and cried. 


	2. The Things You Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You don’t believe me   
> But the things I have are the things you need."  
> \--“Someone to Fall Back On”, Jason Robert Brown

Everything had been very quiet for a while. Mickey, usually a light sleeper, didn't often dream. Now it felt like he had been down, down deep in murky water for an unspecified amount of time, and that maybe he had dreamed there, although he couldn't remember precisely what. There were a great multitude of things, images and sounds, that were present, but distant; he had no handle on the passage of time at all. 

When he got close to the shallows of the water, he started to become aware that it was less dark than it had been before, and less quiet. That didn't make sense to him. He tried to orient himself, to come to some understanding of where he was or what was going on, but there were absolutely no landmarks, even in his own mind. He didn't know where he had been last, or who he had been with. He remembered a shabby house for a few seconds, but couldn't place it. It sent a spike of panic through him when he realized that he had _nothing_ to grab onto.

He forced his eyes open, desperate for something that he could place. The motion, small as it was, felt viscerally intense, like it was the first real thing that he had done outside of the deep, dark water in a long time. His vision was bleary, and for a long few moments, however much he blinked, he couldn't make out more than shapes and shadows. Then his eyes drifted into focus and he noticed a great many things one after the other: His body, under a white hospital blanket. A window with a gray sky outside. A door that was shut. Next to the bed, a man, unshaven, fast asleep in a chair with his face propped in his hand.

None of this was right. Instinctively, Mickey tried to move; pain shot through his left arm, and he gasped.

Ian had slept like shit, of course, but that played to his advantage, finally, because it meant that when Mickey gasped, he heard it, jerking awake so quickly and sitting up so awkwardly that under any other circumstances it would have been comical. One look at the bed showed that Mickey's eyes were open and Ian was at his side immediately. 

"Mickey?" He took hold of his hand, his chest feeling incredibly tight. "Holy - _holy fuck, you're awake."_

To say that it had been a long few days for him didn't cover it. The days and nights since Mickey's accident (four and five, respectively, Ian thought) all sort of blurred together. Ian hadn't been to work, of course, hadn't even left the hospital. In fact, the only time he left Mickey's side was to use the bathroom off of his room. He'd twice gone to the hospital's cafeteria with Lip to get something to eat, both times so full of nervous energy, afraid something would happen while he was gone, that he'd not even been able to eat. It was just easier to have food brought to him. The hospital staff was nothing but kind, the nurses more than once bringing in take-out or things from home for him to eat. He appreciated the kindness but couldn't help but feel like the bit of mothering was because no one expected Mickey to pull through. He wasn't even sure if his family expected it. 

But he did. There was simply no other option. Mickey would wake up because Ian needed him to. And Mickey had _never_ not come back when Ian needed him. 

And now he was awake.

Mickey looked down at the way Ian was holding his hand. He felt like his brain was a few seconds behind, unable to compute in real time. He kept thinking that the penny would drop but each time his mind fumbled for meaning and context, there was a terrifying _nothing_. 

"I..." He tried to say something, but the inside of his mouth was so dry. He cleared his throat and tried again. His voice still sounded rusty and alien, but at least it had become audible. "What's - _happening_?"

Obviously he was in the hospital, but _why?_ He hadn't spent the night in one since... since when? He remembered something dim, from a long time ago. But maybe the blood he was remembering was from this time around. There didn't seem to be any sense of chronology or specificity in what he could call up about his own experiences with hospitals.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Don't try to talk." 

With his free hand, Ian reached up to gently brush back Mickey's hair, then carefully stroked the backs of his fingers along his cheek, making sure to avoid bruises and cuts. 

"You were in an accident," he told him, trying hard to keep his voice steady, calm, though it took effort. "You got hurt pretty bad and you've been in the hospital for four days. But this is - this is _great_ , Mick. You're awake. I know it's probably pretty confusing, you lost a lot of blood, took a real bad hit to your head. But it's gonna be okay, I promise. I've been here the whole time. And Lip's been in, and Carl. Debbie and Sandy. And the doctors here are - they're great. We've just been waiting for you to wake up, but as usual, you took your damn time." 

He smiled a little, leaned down so that he could kiss the back of Mickey's hand, then his forehead. 

"I'm gonna call the doctors, okay? They need to know you're awake." 

Most of what was said washed right over Mickey, a deluge of words that he was too tired and confused to pick apart. He understood now, at least, that he had been in an accident that had rendered him unconscious for a while. And it made sense, too, that he would be disoriented if he had hit his head. When Ian touched him, Mickey didn't really notice; his body seemed to be waking up to the various places that he was in pain, mostly in his arm and right behind his left eye, but in other, less urgent places too. He wished that he could go back to sleep.

The doctor that came in a moment later greeted him, but Mickey wasn't really listening. It wasn't until she asked him a question - _do you remember your name -_ that he focused on swallowing around the fierce throbbing in his head and looked at her.

"Yeah. Mickey." He closed his good hand in a fist around the edge of the blanket. The sound of his own voice was much too loud. "Milkovich. Can I have something for my head?"

The doctor looked up from the chart she was holding, first at Mickey and then at Ian. 

"Gallagher," Ian corrected gently, giving Mickey's hand a squeeze. "We just got married, hasn't been that long. And we did the name change just a couple of weeks ago. It's legal and all, though."   
  
  
The last thing he wanted was for Mickey's confusion, while totally understandable, to cause any suspicion about their marriage or Mickey being on his insurance. All of that paperwork had been done and verified, Ian just hadn't gotten an updated card for Mickey, and Mickey hadn't updated his ID with the change of name yet. The latter hadn't seemed pressing but now Ian was kicking himself for not pushing Mickey to get it done. 

"This is good, right?" he asked the doctor, still holding onto Mickey's hand. "He's awake, he knows his name, he's talking." Knowing that Mickey was likely to get annoyed if they simply talked about him while he was right there, Ian smiled down at him, doing his best to look both encouraging and sure of what he was saying - this was _good_. 

"Gallagher?"

That name felt completely foreign on Mickey's tongue. Well, maybe not completely, but it certainly didn't jive with his memory of what his last name ought to be. And then something occurred to him like a bolt from the blue - a memory, sharp enough that he knew that it was _real_ , the first _real_ thing that he could conjure up since waking. It superseded his headache, even, in order of importance in his thoughts. _He remembered something._

"Wait." Mickey seized on the image in his mind and spoke it aloud before it could get away from him again. " _Ian Gallagher?_ Lip's kid brother?"

"No, Ian Gallagher, your _husband_ ," Ian said, looking a little confused but trying to laugh as if Mickey was joking. And maybe he was. "I mean, well, _yeah._ Lip's brother. But I hope that's not what you think of first." 

He gave Mickey's hand another squeeze as he glanced quickly at the doctor, though this time that touch was more for himself than for Mickey. This was normal, he told himself. It was to be expected that Mickey might be fuzzy. He'd been shot, for fuck's sake, and unconscious for days. 

"Just - relax, okay?" he said to Mickey. "It's... this is a lot, I know. But we got married, remember? At that polka place? I was so nervous I'd mess up the first kiss, do it at the wrong time." He wrapped up Mickey's hand now in both of his. "You had your stargazer lilies. And those fancy fucking chairs." 

Ian might as well have been describing the wedding of a total stranger. Mickey could only look at him blankly, as if it were he that was remembering things all wrong. _Stargazer lilies?_ What the hell were stargazer lilies? 

Mickey turned his gaze to the doctor instead, because that seemed like something that was easier to address. "Hey," he said. "My head really fuckin' hurts. Can I - ?"

"We can adjust the pain medication," the doctor acknowledged. "I'll make a note. Listen. I wouldn't worry too much about trying to remember anything right now. It's common for head trauma to have temporary side effects like memory loss."

"Temporary?" Mickey echoed.

"Yes. What's... less common but not unheard of is longer-term memory loss. But I wouldn't worry about that right now. It's impossible to say for sure what the long-term effects of damage to the brain will end up being. As it heals, everything may go back to normal."

That seemed to Mickey like an answer that wasn't really an answer, but he just wanted to close his eyes. "It okay if I go back to sleep?"

"Of course." The doctor glanced quickly at Ian, knowing that he surely would have follow-up questions, but she addressed herself to Mickey. "You should rest. I'll come back and talk to you later."

Ian had imagined this moment countless times over the past four days, Mickey waking up. There'd been different versions, but all of them involved tears and smiles and 'I love you's. Precisely zero had included Mickey looking up at him like he was a stranger, like Ian was speaking in a different language when talking about their wedding. None had involved Mickey referring to him as 'Lip's kid brother'. And none of them had involved the sick feeling that was creeping into Ian's stomach, the feeling like his chest was being squeezed to the point where he wasn't sure he could breathe. And none of them involved Mickey _not_ looking at him and speaking only to the doctor. 

Ian didn't miss the doctor's glance, her hint that he needed to leave so that they could talk and Mickey could rest. But after four days of waiting, five nights of next to no sleep, he had to have a few more seconds with him. "I love you," he said when the doctor had left. Mickey had said it first, the first two times coming when Ian was lost - when he was so fucking lost that it was like he couldn't remember what was right or up or down - and Mickey was trying to bring him back. The shoe was just on the other foot now. Squeezing probably too tightly, Ian brought Mickey's hand up to his lips again, still held in both of his, to kiss his fingers. _"I love you, Mick._ And - and I'll be back later, okay? You get some rest." He looked at him for just a moment longer, then gently placed Mickey's hand back on the bed, heading out of the room, pausing at the door for one last look, then heading out to speak to the doctor.

The doctor was waiting for Ian when he came out into the hallway, looking decidedly sober. She was only maybe forty, but there were already thin threads of grey in her hair; the name tag on her coat read DOCTOR E. NGUYEN with the final 'N' beginning to peel away. 

"I know this is hard," she said. She was keeping her voice low, but she needn't have bothered; in the room behind Ian, Mickey's eyes were already closed, his breathing evening out. "You were right. It _is_ very good news that he woke up. Now we can start to assess how the injury has impacted him in real terms. Memory loss really is very common. I had a patient last year in her thirties wake up crying because she thought she was still with her high school boyfriend and couldn't understand why he wasn't there. Brains are incredibly complicated and they take time to heal."

Ian could not have cared less about some woman who wanted her high school boyfriend, but he didn't say that aloud. (In his defense, he doubted that her family would care much about his husband when their loved one had just woken up either.) 

"But he'll get better, right?" he asked. "His memory will come back? Soon?" He could deal with this for a little while, Mickey being confused. That was a small price to pay in exchange for Mickey being alive. "What should I do? I can bring in pictures and things. And he's got some of my clothes to sleep in while he's here, ones that he likes." He could hear the desperate edge in his voice, the near pleading, but he didn't care.

Dr. Nguyen looked uncomfortable, but she managed a smile. She seemed to understand the necessity for the barrage of questions, and waited him out patiently.

"Pictures and things that he's familiar with are a great idea,” she told him. “And when he's ready to go home in a few days, it would be a good idea to keep that up - get back to his regular routines as much as possible. We really don't know how quickly he'll recover his memory, but chances are good that you'll see little bits and pieces start to come back over the next few days. In the meantime, don't forget that he'll often be disoriented and likely won't recognize people or places right away. That can be pretty scary."

Ian nodded along, committing everything the doctor said to memory as best as he could. His fear and stress combined with his exhaustion and the shock of Mickey not immediately recognizing him were enough to make his head spin. Added to the fact that he knew he was walking a fine line with risking swinging either into a manic episode or a depressive one, he was well aware that he more than likely would have to have her repeat everything to Lip later on.

"Bits and pieces, that's good," he said, the band around his chest loosening, finally. "We can work with bits and pieces." Mickey's memory would come back; that was all he needed to hear, that they were just in the 'meantime' faze. "I'll make sure he's not overwhelmed, not too many people at once. I took a week off of work, I can take more. I'll make sure he gets settled in when we go home, that someone is there with him when I can't be." If possible, he thought, he could switch to a night shift, that way he'd be there when Mickey was sleeping. Of course, that meant he'd have to figure out when _he_ would sleep, but that was another day's problem. 

"How long will he be out now?" he asked. "Do I have time to run home and actually shower?"

The Doctor looked past him, to where Mickey was sound asleep. "He'll be really tired for a few weeks. You'll have plenty of time to go home and come back. We'll keep a close eye on him while you're gone." She was obviously going out of her way to be nice, so that he wouldn't worry.

"Okay, I'll go home, but just for a little while." Maybe he could squeeze in an hour or so of sleep in a real bed. "But if he wakes up, will you call me? I want to be here when he's awake."

"Of course." The doctor smiled at Ian, but she looked a little concerned. Even if she wasn't familiar with his mental health issues, it was obvious that stress and exhaustion were taking a toll on him. She had seen other people come by to visit, so she knew, at least, that the two of them had some kind of support system. They would need it.

"I know you've been here for the past few days, and those chairs are awful to sleep in. Do you have someone who can drive you home?"

"I'll just take the bus," Ian said, not willing to wait for Lip to come and get him. "There's a stop about three blocks from my house. Doctor, I - " Even as he tried to speak, he found he was at a loss for words. "I'll be back. Thank you."

On his way to the bus stop, he called Lip, filling him in, telling him what had happened. And even though he tried very hard to only sound optimistic - because he _was_ optimistic - he had a feeling that Lip would hear the hurt and fresh round of worry that Mickey waking up had brought. Lip didn't mention it, though, for which Ian was grateful. He simply agreed to meet Ian in a couple of hours to go back to the hospital together. Once home, Ian packed a fresh bag of clothes for Mickey, shoved in their wedding album, showered, and then nearly collapsed onto their bed. He barely remembered to set an alarm on his phone, making sure the volume was on high in case the doctor called, before falling asleep. 

In one of those cruel twists, the sleep seemed to do more harm than good. When Ian woke, his head was throbbing, as was his back, and he felt nearly as disoriented as Mickey had been. But he made coffee, even though too much caffeine wasn't good, poured it into a travel mug, and headed to Lip's, the bag of things for Mickey over his shoulder. 

Lip was sitting on the front steps when Ian arrived, smoking one of the three cigarettes a day he was letting himself have in the latest round of his battle against smoking. He watched Ian approach, noting the dark circles under his eyes and his clean but disheveled hair.

"You good?" He asked. It wasn't, _Did you get enough sleep_ or, _Did you take your meds_ , because the answer to the first one was obvious and the second question Lip tried not to push with Ian unless he had to. But he wanted Ian to know that it hadn't gone unnoticed - that someone would be paying attention if he took his eye off the ball and his health started to suffer. 

"Yep." 

Ian's tone left no room for argument as he pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and took one out, lighting it up. 

"Let's go, man. I've been gone long enough. And I'll tell you what, I think my back is, like, molding to that fucking chair. I slept about an hour and a half on the actual bed but it feels more like a week on a bed of fucking nails." He stubbed out the cigarette a moment later, only half-smoked. "You can take your bike if you want, I'll just catch the bus because I'm not sure when I'll be leaving again." 

Maybe - _maybe_ \- if Mickey was able to sleep and wake up again without any major issues, he'd go home again overnight, or at least for three or four hours. But it all depended on Mickey. If need be, he'd wait to sleep in the bed again until Mickey could be there, too. 

"Nah, we can take Tami's car,” Lip said. “Her sister came to pick up her and Fred, they're taking the kids to a birthday party at her uncle's place in Waukegan." He chose not to comment on the fact that Ian's inability to get any sleep was pretty self-evident. Tossing the remains of his cigarette in the general direction of the cracked ceramic bowl that sat on the bottom step, he stood up, digging in his pocket for the keys.

When they were on their way, Lip glanced over at Ian. "So you're my kid brother again, huh?" 

"Yeah, don't get used to it," Ian said, looking out the window so that he didn't have to look at Lip. He knew that his brother wouldn't be fooled by the faux-lightness in his voice, but at least he didn't have to see Lip's face as he _didn't_ buy his act. "By the time we get back in there, I'll be his husband again and your moment of glory will be long gone." 

He sighed, then, and leaned his head back against the headrest, trying to figure out how to put into words how _blank_ Mickey had looked. Instead, within only a minute or two, he was asleep. 

Lip reached out and turned the radio off when he realized that Ian was out cold. They drove the rest of the way in silence. 

Lip found them somewhere to park at the quiet end of a row of cars, furthest from the street, and sat there for another twenty minutes, letting Ian rest. He wanted another cigarette, but made no move to retrieve the carton from his pocket.

Then, knowing that Ian would be pissed if he woke up and found out he'd been gone from Mickey longer than he had planned, Lip reached over and gently shook his shoulder. 

"Hey, sleeping beauty. We're here."

Ian came awake with a jolt that was the result of nearly five straight days listening for any movement from Mickey's bed. He had to blink a few times to make sense of where he was, which he then tucked away to remember the next time Mickey woke up confused. He glanced at his phone for the time, gave Lip a look, but did not comment. He couldn't have been out for too long, and the car had somehow been more restful than the bed. 

"Come on," he said, getting out of the car, grabbing his bag from the backseat. "I've got pictures. The doctor said things like that could help his memory so I got the wedding album. We don't really have many others." Which made sense, given who they were, but was something Ian planned to remedy when Mickey was home and recovered. "He was in a lot of pain, though, before. And the doctor said he'd be in here at least a few more days." 

Lip had seen Mickey unconscious over the past handful of days, and he thought it was pretty damn lucky that they thought he might be recovered enough to go home in just a few days. He hadn't wanted to make Ian feel worse any more than he had wanted to give him too much false hope or fake optimism, so he had kept his mouth shut. But up until Mickey had woken up, Lip had pretty much been betting against him.

"Hey. I can sit with him later, if he's asleep. You can go home, get a night in a real bed." _If you want_ , he didn't say, but it was there; Lip wasn't Fiona, and he wasn't going to try and bully Ian into taking care of himself.

Ian was shaking his head as they got into the elevator in the lobby. "Nah, nah," he said. "But thanks, I appreciate the offer. Maybe tomorrow, depending on how he feels, I might have you swing by after work for a couple of hours. I'll go home and sleep a little bit, then." He'd spend his nights in bed when Mickey was there, not before. Lip's concern was obvious and Ian wasn't trying to be dismissive. But he just had to hold it together a few more days. Once Mickey was home they could find a routine, he could get full nights of rest next to him, they could start moving forward. Ian just couldn't start that process alone. 

When they reached Mickey's floor, Ian saw Dr. Nguyen at the desk and approached her immediately, introducing Lip to her since he wasn't sure if he'd ever actually done so over the past few days. "How is he?" 

The doctor smiled at Lip when they were introduced, but quickly turned her attention back to Ian.

"He woke up again, a few minutes ago," she explained. "I checked in on him. The pain meds seem to be working and he knew where he was and remembered meeting me earlier, so these are all good things."

She didn't mention that Mickey had seemed a little relieved to have had no visitors when he awoke.

"I'll come by again before I leave for the day, okay? Then Doctor King comes in for the overnight. You'll be in good hands."

Ian exhaled the breath he'd been holding while Dr. Nguyen spoke. Mickey hadn't lost anything that had already come back, that had to be a good sign. He thanked her, then led the way back to his room, Lip following behind. He knocked softly on the door, the stepped in, putting a smile on his face. 

"Hey, Mick. I brought someone to see you. But you should know I'm gonna be _real_ upset if you don't refer to him as 'Ian Gallagher's older and much less attractive brother'." He knew that it might still be too soon, but he was hoping – _hoping -_ that Mickey would at least remember that they were married. Even if he could recall no other details, if he knew that much, it would be enough. "And I brought some pictures for you to look at, when you feel up to it. Not tonight, of course. But maybe tomorrow." 

Mickey had half-wondered if seeing Ian Gallagher earlier - about eight inches taller than his Little League days - had been a strange extension of whatever he had been dreaming about when he had been unconscious. It seemed as likely as anything else.

When he saw him again now, Mickey felt a little more prepared for it, although he still didn't know how to respond to Ian's attitude towards him. As much as he wanted to see the pictures Ian had brought, he didn't want to do it while Ian stared at him and waited for him to recognize something. 

He met Lip's gaze, and the latter nodded. "They giving you the good drugs, Mickey?"

Mickey might have nodded, but he had learned quickly not to move his head unless absolutely necessary. "Can't feel my body. It's fuckin' great. You still pretending you're smarter than everyone else?"

"Never pretending," Lip said. "You, uh. You know me but not Ian?"

Ian felt a flash of something - was it jealousy? anger? - that Mickey was able to crack a joke with Lip, that he remembered him but not his own husband. And he had the sudden and very strong urge to punch Lip in the face when he felt the need to put that into words. 

"I'm standing right here, man," he said, mostly under his breath but loud enough for Lip to hear, at least.

"I don't know shit." Mickey glanced at Ian, but it was hard to meet his eyes. "I remember a few things. Being a kid. I remember... my sister. My dad. The house, maybe. Thought I might have everything up until I was thirteen or fourteen, but there are too many holes before that. It's like... someone smashed a mirror."

Pulling the chair over closer to the bed, Ian sat, automatically reaching for Mickey's hand but then stopping just short. Something about Mickey looking at him but not _really_ looking at him had caused that same pressure around his lungs again. But he was still able to get a smile on his face. 

"Don't worry too much about it," he told Mickey. "It's gonna come back, okay? Don't try to force too much now, your brain just needs time. You were really, really hurt. I know you don't remember it but... my partner and I were the ones to get the call. I got to you before anyone else did." Before Lip had, that was for sure. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up this time." 

"Nah, it's... it's fine." Mickey hadn't missed the way Ian had almost reached for his hand. He was relieved that he had changed his mind. Looking down at the word FUCK, Mickey curled his hand into a fist almost without thinking about it, his knuckles turning white. He remembered the way the needle had felt. It seemed like a shitty deal, remembering that pretty vividly but not his wedding. 

"You didn't look that comfortable, when I woke up and you were passed out like the world's skinniest pretzel in that chair," he added. "You can go home and sleep. If you want. I know the nurses now, I won't have a panic attack when I wake up again."

Ian shrugged off Mickey's offer as if it was no big deal that he'd spent so long sitting and sleeping in that chair that his ass was about as flat as the seat cushion. 

"That's okay. I want to be here when you're awake, when you wake up. After four days, you know..." 

He hated that, hated that for some reason he felt like he needed to explain himself to his husband, explain why, after he'd found him nearly dead, he didn't want to leave his side. 

"Do you, um. Do you remember anything about me? Besides being Lip's brother?" 

Mickey didn't know how to answer that question. He had meant every word of what he had said about the shattered mirror. Maybe there were bits and pieces of a life with Ian in it, but nothing big and whole enough to grab onto. At the same time, this awkwardness growing between them - Ian knowing everything about him, Mickey feeling like a stranger- wasn't exactly something he wanted to lean into.

Instead of saying anything right away, Mickey fumbled with his good hand on the little tray next to the bed, retrieving the two rings that a nurse had brought to him when he had woken up before Ian's return. They had taken his wedding and engagement rings when he had gone into surgery, and now his left hand was too buried in bandages to wear them.

"I was thinking I'd wear these on my right hand. Just for now. You think that's okay?" 

If he said yes, Mickey would need him to put them on for him. Everything was tricky with just one available hand.

Ian had caught sight of the rings when he'd come in, and even though he knew that Mickey's left hand was unavailable at the moment, that he _couldn't_ wear the rings, it had hurt a little, seeing them set aside. And when Mickey suggested wearing them on his right hand, Ian's lips spread into a wide grin. The fact that Mickey still wanted to wear them at all felt huge to him. It didn't even occur to him that bringing it up might also serve as a distraction from the fact that Mickey hadn't answered his question. 

"Yeah," he said, reaching for the rings right away. "Yeah, I think that would be great." The rings weren't entirely dissimilar, so as Ian slid them onto his finger, he explained, even though Mickey could likely figure it out. "This is the wedding ring, of course. The actual 'with this ring, I marry you' one. And this one is the engagement ring. I actually proposed twice, but the first time I didn't have a ring. So this was the time that I did it up right."

Mickey closed his hand loosely again, looking down at the rings. They didn't look quite right; he wondered if that was because he had never been a jewelry guy or if there was some small part of his subconscious that remembered wearing them on the other hand. Either one felt equally likely. He didn't say anything about it to Ian.

"They got any jello in this place?" He asked. "The red kind?" 

Ian had to laugh. 

  
"You and your fucking jello, I swear. You're like a kid." 

Having just had Mickey's hand in his while he put the rings on, he found it hard to not keep touching him, and he reached out to put his hand on Mickey's again, only for a few seconds. 

"If they don't have it here, I'll bring you in some, okay? How's the pain now? The medicine they gave you, is it helping?”

"It's... better,” Mickey decided. “When I woke up the second time, I was loopy as fuck. I don't really remember what I said to the doctor." He made a bit of a face. "Hopefully not the usual dumb shit I say when I'm high. But now I'm in the sweet spot. Doesn't hurt too much but I'm not singing Christmas songs either."

Ian was still smiling. 

"You've moved on to Pat Benatar in recent years but I think they're all probably grateful you're not singing." Mickey was confused, he was definitely a little slower as much from the meds as the head injury, probably, but he was still Mickey, there were still glimpses of the down-deep him. Ian couldn’t help but be relieved.

“Did the doctor tell you about all of your injuries?" He wasn't sure what all they'd covered, if Mickey knew he'd been shot, if he had any idea _why_ he'd been shot. 

Mickey reached up to scratch his nose, partly as a cover to give himself some time to think. He was still finding that things were only coming to him slowly. "Uh. The doc told me I hit my head. Really fuckin' hard. And that someone shot me, twice, once right above my elbow and once in the shoulder. She said that the cops would probably want to talk to me about it but I got nothing. I don't remember any of it."

"The cops, yeah. They'll definitely be in soon. I've talked to them a few times, so it's okay that you don't remember anything right now." Ian hadn't been there but he figured he knew as much about the situation, or nearly so, as Mickey would anyway. 

"I called Mandy a couple of days ago. She's... pretty busy with work and all so I was waiting to call her again when you were awake, in case you wanted to hear her voice. So just let me know, okay? If you're not up to it, that's fine, too. I'll keep her updated." 

"Mandy?" Mickey echoed. His sister had been one of the first people to come back to him, when he had woken up earlier. Not everything, of course, but certainly more than he remembered about Ian. He could recall dribs and drabs of things, playing video games in the living room or sitting at the kitchen table with supper fresh from the microwave - and one particularly clear image of her trying to climb onto him and stick a dirty sock in his mouth for cheating at some kind of outdoor game that involved darts and warm cans of Keystone Light. 

He hadn't asked about her, but now that Ian had reminded him, he was gripped with a sudden need to talk to her. She felt like a real, tangible tether to whatever his life had been, in a way that Ian did not.

"I want to talk to her. Where is she?"

Did it sting that Mickey was immediately eager to talk to his sister, the same way it had stung that he was able to joke about memories that he had with Lip when it seemed like a chore to even look at Ian? Hell, yeah. But at least Mickey remembered Mandy, Ian told himself; at least he was showing interest in talking to someone. 

"She's... you know, I'm not totally sure where she is right now." Ian worked hard to keep his voice casual as he pulled out his phone, texting Mandy to tell her that Mickey was awake, asking her to call as soon as she could. "She moves around a lot, always someplace new. I don't see her too often, she doesn't come around much. But I know if she can, she'll be in to see you. And she'll call soon, I'm sure. I've got your phone, too. It's pretty messed up, though." At least he'd been able to get most of the blood off of it. "I'll get you a new one." Just another thing he'd not wanted to take the time to do since it would take him from Mickey's side. 

"Moves around a lot, huh." Mickey sounded like he knew what that meant, even if Ian hadn't said it. "Either she's got a shitty boyfriend or she's into the same shit as our mom. Or both. Man, that sucks."

Normally Mickey wasn't that precious about how other people lived their lives, but between the pain meds and the almost-dying, he was feeling a little more sentimental than usual.

"I think I'll let Mandy tell you what she's been up to," Ian said, glancing at Lip out of the corner of his eye. He had kept his promise to Mandy, had never told anyone when she'd last come around, had never really told Lip that he was still in touch with her. 

"I got any pictures on that phone?" Mickey asked.

Ian pulled Mickey's phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. "I charged it for you. You always let it get so damn low, drives me crazy. But, yeah. Yeah, there are pictures on there, I think. I didn't look, but you take them sometimes. Or I send them to you." Along with the pictures would be hundreds of texts between the two of them. Maybe that would jog his memory. "Maybe, um. Maybe just don't look at the pictures in front of the doctors or nurses." 

Mickey brushed his fingers lightly over the cracked screen. He didn't remember ever holding this particular phone in his hand before, but somehow he knew how to access pictures and messages. At Ian's words, he looked up from the phone.

"Those kinds of pictures?" He knew that eventually curiosity would drive him to look at them, but just now, imagining whatever intimate photos or words he would find, he had a peculiar feeling of intruding on a stranger's life. It made him turn the screen off. To stop Ian from remarking on it, he said, "That's what kind of guy I am? A dick pic guy?" 

"If you scroll back in our texts you'll find all sorts of things," Ian said. "I work a lot of nights, a lot of the time it's slow and we're both bored..."

Ian had no idea if Mickey would even want to look at pictures like that, but it was better to warn him, probably. "You've got your playlists and stuff, too. Maybe those would be nice for you to listen to. Oh, and I brought clean clothes. I could - well, I'm sure the doctors would help you change, if you want to." He wanted to suggest a dozen things that might make Mickey feel a little bit better, but didn't want to overwhelm him. They'd go at Mickey's pace, and as long as he didn't ask him to leave, Ian could handle that. 

"Maybe tomorrow," Mickey said. He was starting to get tired again, or, more accurately, the bone-deep exhaustion that hadn't gone away in the brief time he had been awake since the accident was getting too tough to fight. He didn't think he could possibly navigate the conversation around whether it would be Ian or the hospital staff who helped him change, never mind the actual wardrobe change itself. 

"Tomorrow's fine, Mick,” Ian told him. “Or the next day, or the day after that. Whenever you're ready." 

"Can you hold onto my phone while I sleep?"

Ian took Mickey's phone when he held it out, choosing to believe that being asked to safe-keep it was another good sign, that down deep somewhere Mickey knew that Ian was the one he trusted the most. 

"We'll let you get some sleep now," he said, standing again. He had nearly forgotten that Lip was there, but he was grateful that his brother had hung back. "If Mandy calls, I'll try to arrange a time tomorrow that's good for her to talk, try to coordinate with when you'll be awake. And I'll be in here when you wake up or if you need anything." He headed for the door, gesturing for Lip to follow him out. "Get some rest, okay? Don't think too much or worry about anything. You're awake now, that's what matters. You've done the hard part, sticking around." 

When he followed Ian out into the hallway, Lip felt his shoulders relax slightly and winced a little at his own reaction. There would be some tough conversations with Ian ahead. 

The exchange had been hard to watch, if Lip was being completely honest. Ian pounced on anything that could possibly be construed as some sign that Mickey remembered their life together, and Mickey - well, Mickey just seemed tired, and more than a little bit uncomfortable with having them there. 

"Hey, um. You know when he said you could go home and get some sleep? I think you should."

Ian quirked an eyebrow at Lip, something he'd unconsciously picked up from Mickey, as he headed for the waiting room. (How was it that all he'd done for days was sit and yet he felt so exhausted that it was still all he wanted to do now?)

"Once he's sleeping, I'll just go back in, catch a few winks in the chair. You get used to it after a while, it's fine." He kept thinking that maybe in a couple of days he'd go home overnight to sleep for a few hours, but now that he had actually spoken to Mickey again, there was no way in hell he was leaving Mickey now, not when he'd _just_ woken up. "Think you could make a trip to McDonald's for me before you go home? The cafeteria is closed now except for the vending machines and I'm fucking sick of Funions."

"Yeah, I can bring you McDonald's. But hey. Listen." 

Lip slowed his pace, wanting Ian to really look at him. "I get it. I'd want to sleep in the chair, too. And I'm not telling you what to do. You know what you can handle. But I'd be pretty fuckin' remiss as your big brother if I didn't remind you that if you don't get enough real sleep and your head gets messed up, you're not gonna be any good to him."

He shrugged a little and tucked his hands into his pockets. "All I'm saying is that I'll drive you back in the morning, if you want. You can have some real food, at my place. Up to you."

"Not tonight, Lip." 

Ian's voice was firm and had an undercurrent of warning to it telling Lip not to push it. 

"He _just_ woke up," he told him, stopping just outside of the waiting room so that if there were other people in it they wouldn't have to do this in front of them. "My husband almost died, he was unconscious for days, and he just woke up. If you think I'm leaving him tonight, you're fucking nuts. My head is fine, I'm fine. And maybe tomorrow or the next night I'll be okay to leave. But I'm not leaving him, now. As soon as he's resting, I'm going right back in there and I'm staying right beside him until he wakes up again."

"Alright, man." Lip gave his arm a brief squeeze. "You know I had to say it."

Lip knew that getting Ian to take care of himself couldn't be anyone's full-time job but Ian's. But there were more than a few delicate conversations that Lip was starting to think he'd be obligated to have with Ian in the next few weeks, particularly if Mickey's memory didn't come back - about Ian's health, and about what Mickey wanted. He kind of just had his fingers crossed that Mickey would wake up tomorrow and remember everything, honestly. 

"You want your usual at McDonald's?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning to everyone who commented! You're the real MVPs. All we do in quarantine now is sit and read comments basically. Hook the comments up to my veins!


	3. The Way That We Used to Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will still hold onto pictures of the way that we used to be  
> And the way that I knew you once before.   
> – “Pictures”, Amie Miriello

"That guy is such an asshole." 

Ian was, as always, in the chair beside Mickey's bed, monstrous chicken sandwich from the cafeteria in his hand, fries spread out on a napkin on his lap. Mickey had a cup of red jello that Ian had brought from home. (He still wasn't allowed to really eat, but the doctor had approved the jello, at least.) On the television on the wall across from the bed, some WWF repeat that Ian was sure they'd both probably seen before was on. Ian had spent the night again, of course, and had mostly stayed in the chair during the following morning as Mickey had drifted in and out, only leaving in the afternoon to walk to the small grocery store two blocks away to pick up the jello, swinging by the cafeteria on the way back for his own lunch.

He'd just shoved a handful of fries in his mouth when his phone buzzed. Pulling it out, he smiled. "It's for you," he said to Mickey, accepting the Facetime call as he handed it over. As soon as the phone was in Mickey's hand, his face visible to the caller, Mandy's voice came through loud and clear. 

"Hey, shithead."

"Hey, asshole." Mickey couldn't keep the smile off his face and didn't really want to. He was almost relieved to talk to Mandy, as if he had had some doubt that his previous life had existed before, and now at least some of his memories were confirmed. 

He sat up a little straighter so that he could settle the phone more comfortably in his lap. 

"You getting into trouble, or what?"

Mandy looked concerned as her eyes roamed over Mickey's face, taking in the bruises and cuts and how tired he looked. But she also looked very happy to see him - in any condition. 

"Not as much as you are," she countered. "Jesus, Mickey. If you wanted some attention you could just go around beating people up, like you used to. Ian would probably have your ass for it but even he isn't as bad as a hospital stay. I bet the doctors are being encouraging but I'll just tell you straight - you look like someone shot you and you wrecked your car _and_ your face. Though the face might be an improvement."

"An improvement? Come on, we both know I got the good looks in the family." Mickey squinted a little at the screen. "Did you dye your hair blonde? Does the meth-head trailer park know you went AWOL?" 

Honestly, Mickey had felt like he had had to be so careful around Ian over the last day or so, not feeling quite comfortable in his presence but quite having it in him to send him away, either. At least this back-and-forth with Mandy finally felt familiar. He finally felt _relaxed_.

Not wanting to intrude on personal time, Ian quietly slipped out the door.

Meanwhile, Mandy's smile faltered just a little, but she didn't address the AWOL comment. "You're just jealous that you wouldn't look this good blond," she came back with. "And because my ass is better." She leaned back in the chair that she was sitting in, propping her phone up on what seemed to be a table in front of her. "You had all of us scared for a while, you know that? Damn good thing you woke up." 

"Yeah, I mean. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I didn't die. But it's fucked up, not remembering anything. Apparently I fuckin' _got married_ to Ian Gallagher."

Mickey rubbed at his face a little, where the stubble was starting to get thick. Ian had offered to help him shave, but that somehow felt even more intimate than helping him change his clothes. Even if it hadn't, Mickey preferred not to need help with most things. If that meant he grew a beard, then it meant he grew a beard. 

"You did get married to Ian Gallagher," Mandy said, laughing. "Big fucking gay wedding from what I heard. I wasn't able to make it, but Ian sent me lots of pictures and it looked like you two queens had a big-ass shindig." Whereas Ian couldn't mention the wedding without looking bruised yet hopeful, trying not to stare as he searched for any sign of memory in Mickey's eyes, Mandy kept her voice light, teasing without any emotional poking or prodding. "I was pretty pissed, really. I liked him first. And I think it's awful convenient that you now don't remember that ultimate brotherly betrayal." 

Mickey appreciated the way that Mandy talked about the wedding without making him feel like that particular gap in his memory was an incredibly significant loss. He knew that it was - he didn't need the look in Ian's eyes to tell him. 

The thing was that Mickey wouldn't have ever considered himself the marrying kind; Terry had been all about family, and blood, and raising your kids to pick up where you left off, but Mickey had always privately thought that he wouldn't be too upset if he never had any kids at all - a feeling compounded when he turned thirteen and became pretty convinced that he didn't even want girls. Two men couldn't have a family unit, went Terry's rhetoric, ergo there was no way that Mickey would have a family if he were gay. And why get married if you weren't going to have kids? 

All that to say that he knew exactly how important Ian must be to him, if Mickey had agreed to marry him. 

Mickey flipped her off, without saying any of that aloud. "So you just left town and me and you don't talk anymore, huh?"

Mandy picked up the Diet Coke can she was drinking from but made a big show of giving him the evil eye over the rim. 

"It's not really that simple, but I guess that's the long and short of it. I had a bad boyfriend for a while, real bad news. And when I left him... well, you know how it is, hustling to stay afloat. Or, I guess you don't, lucky you. But Ian has kept me updated on you. And, you know, I wasn't the only one shit about keeping in touch, Mr. Run Off to Mexi - oh, shit. Has anyone told you about that, yet?"

"I ran off to Mexico? Jesus Christ. That have anything to do with this cartel shit Ian's been telling me about?"

For a second, Mandy's head disappeared as she leaned over to reach into her purse on the floor beside her chair. When she was visible again, she was unwrapping a piece of gum and grinning in the way only a sister can when she's about to really give her brother some shit. 

"You broke out of prison _and_ ran off to Mexico," she said, chewing the gum hard for a second to soften it up. "Let's see... tossed in the joint for attempted murder - which, really, you thought you _had_ murdered her, so that was sort of a let-down on all counts - then you break _out_ of the joint and take off south of the border where you and your white-ass-that-only-knows-the-words-taco-and- _puta_ -in-Spanish hook up with the drug cartel. Then you roll on said cartel to get yourself tossed _back_ in the joint up here again." Her smile faded a little and she looked at him intently on her phone screen, no longer looking at the camera to really rub in her teasing. "I'm so fucking glad you're alive, Mickey. You've done some seriously dumb shit, but I'm glad you've lived to tell the tale - or, hear it, I guess. Whatever."

"All of that sounds like bullshit, anyway," Mickey told her. The two of them had never really done the soft, sugary-sweet Hallmark sibling relationship stuff. Mickey wasn't even sure that he had ever told Mandy that he loved her. They had definitely only hugged a few times, max. It meant that the look of concern in her eyes was kind of hard to look at and he wanted to brush past it as quickly as possible.

"Yeah, you know, I should write a book about your life," Mandy agreed. "It’ll sell millions. Only I'd have to market it as fiction because no one would ever believe anyone would be as fucking stupid as you are." 

Mickey raised his eyebrows. "Why the fuck would I roll on a cartel? Did I have some kind of death wish?"  
  
  
Mandy looked at the camera in surprise at Mickey's question. 

"Wait. Ian told you the cartel was after you but he didn't tell you why you rolled on them?"

"No. We haven't talked that much," Mickey said, suddenly feeling self-conscious about it. "He told me about the wedding. We only talked about the cartel because the doctor told me that someone shot me and the cops are supposed to come by and ask me about it. Couldn't snitch if I wanted to though because I don't remember shit." 

He rubbed his nose with his thumb, glancing toward the door to make sure that Ian hadn't come back into the room. "We've basically been watching TV all day today. It's the only thing that isn't super fucking awkward because at least we have something to talk about other than the fact that I couldn't pick him out of a line-up and apparently we're ride-or-die."

Mandy listened, watching Mickey as he spoke, just letting him say what he was feeling at the moment, though of course she was sure Mickey knew that Ian had talked to her, too. 

"Maybe that's what you have to do, until your memory comes back," she finally said. "Yeah, I guess you'll have to have some big conversations. I mean, you need to know about your life. But it doesn't all have to be walks down memory lane. Just hang out together. And listen, Ian is like... a golden retriever, you know? He's gonna want you to be happy, but he is actual shit at picking up hints. So if you need to have a break from deep talks, you'll have to spell it out, but he'll understand. As for the cartel thing, might be better if he tells you. I don't know what is not my business, here, and what is _definitely_ not my business. You know what I mean?" She shrugged. "And, you know, I like him better than you so if I have to choose one of you to piss off..."

"Yeah, yeah." Mickey looked away for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say. "I want to know what it was like. My life. It's not that I don't want him to ever talk about that shit. It's just that he can't talk about it without this fucking - tone in his voice, and look on his face. I keep feeling like I kicked a puppy. He wants me to remember so fucking bad." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey caught sight of his wedding ring and thought about Ian's face when he had put it on his hand the day before. He immediately felt a little stab of guilt. "It's hard to get to know someone who already knows you," he said, a little more quietly. "That's all."

"You told him that yet?" Mandy had her eyebrows raised in such a way that she hadn't said _'Duh_ ' but she didn't need to. "I know you've only been conscious, like, five minutes, and hopefully you'll remember everything soon. But until then, just tell him what you told me. Ian wears his heart on his sleeve, always has. He isn't going to be able to hide how he's feeling, so you might have to just accept that. But if you tell him all this, tell him you gotta mix the big stuff with the relaxing stuff, he'll do it. You two... it's been a long fucking ten years for the two of you, because you're both idiots fucked up by all of our parents. You'll figure this out, but Ian needs real clear direction."

"Yeah." Mickey wondered how Mandy managed to make everything sound so easy. Since when were they the ones who were good at talking about their feelings? "The doctor said that things would probably start to come back a little bit soon. Here's fuckin' hoping."

Mickey didn't want to even imagine the possibility that nothing ever came back, and he had to start all over again.

"Here's hoping," Mandy agreed.

"Hey,” he said. “Don't think I didn't hear what you said about having a shitty boyfriend for a while there. You know I'll round up the boys and we'll kick the shit out of anyone you need us to. Just gotta ask."

She rolled her eyes. "I can take care of myself, Mickey," she reminded him.

"Oh, I know you can take care of yourself. And make your own choices. I can't stop you from dating fuckheads." He raised his eyebrows at her. "I'm just saying that if you decide you're done with one and he doesn't get the message - what else are big dumb assholes like Iggy and Colin and Joey for?" 

Mandy gave him a look. "Iggy and Colin and Joey couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with the bottom cut out. Besides, I'm not with him anymore, and it's gonna be a long time before you're kicking anyone's ass. Lip's kid could take you right now.” 

Mickey made a face. "If Lip's kid takes after him, he's gonna be about four feet tall and telling everyone that his favourite movie is books. I ain't worried."

Talking about Lip wasn't the best topic but Mandy been the one to bring it up, and she could change the subject just as easily. "Ian said you have to get a new phone, so when you do, make sure you have this number. If you start getting ready to kill someone until your memory comes back, just call, okay? I'll remind you what a pussy you are, tell you to suck it up, and you'll be fine."

"Oh, thanks. Sister of the fuckin' year." That said, though, Mickey did appreciate the offer, and it was obvious despite the sarcasm. 

"I'm the best fucking sister you got," Mandy said, giving Mickey another look but there was something in her eyes that said she wasn't just joking. "Don't let anyone try and make you forget me, too. You got that? I ain't gonna be replaced by anyone, Gallagher _or_ Milkovich."

"I ain't gonna replace you. You and Sandy are the only people in our family that I like, even when you're being a pain in the ass." That had been true for most of Mickey’s life, both in the years that he remembered and the ones he didn’t.

"Yeah, well. Once we realized you were just one of us girls when you went soft over Ian Gallagher, we figured you might be okay. Sometimes. When you're sleeping.”

Mickey flipped her off – again. "You gonna come up this way sometime soon? So you and Ian can gossip about me like two old ladies in person?"

Her features relaxed. "We do pretty well gossiping about you on the phone," she said. "But, yeah. Let me know when you're home again and settled in. I'll come visit."

"I'm gonna hold you to that," he warned. "We need to find out if I can still kick your ass at beer darts with one hand."

“Fuck you, you never beat me at beer darts with _two_ hands. Those are fighting words." Mandy was smiling now, though, as had been the case since they were kids, she looked almost uncomfortable with it, like she was afraid she wasn't supposed to or allowed to. "I always used to half-consider aiming for Terry and saying it was an accident."

"And let him win?" Mickey's sarcasm was palpable. He remembered that Terry sometimes came home already drunk from the Alibi and wanted to join in on whatever drinking-game festivities were occurring in the yard. Usually he was in a great mood until he started losing. There had been more than a few family dust-ups over beer darts. 

"He would've fuckin' deserved it, though. Pretty surprised that I managed to get gay-married and I'm still breathing. After Ian told me that we were married but before he mentioned the cartel, I just assumed that it was Terry who put me in the hospital."

"Yeah..." Mandy's eyes slid to the side, looking at something off-camera. "He tried. A few times. Has Ian told you about the day of the wedding?" There was more - a lot more - that Terry had done to try and punish Mickey for being gay. But she wasn't willing to be the one to tell him any of that. In fact, as far as she was concerned, this brief period of time when he _didn't_ remember – up to and including Terry showing up with a gun before burning down the wedding venue - could be a good thing. 

"No, but please register my complete lack of surprise that Terry tried to fuck everything up. He's fuckin' famous for it." Mickey shook his head. "Sooner or later he'll run out of strikes and they'll lock him up for good, right? Matter of time."

"A girl can dream, right? Maybe I'll come back long-term if he croaks or goes in for life." That probably wasn't true, but Mandy wanted it to be true badly enough that she put it out there as a possibility. 

Mickey hesitated. "You, uh. Wanna debrief Ian on this whole conversation before I hang up?" He didn't mean it in a nasty way, but it was obvious that Mandy and Ian spoke often, and about him in particular. 

"Nah, I don't think so," she said, reaching to pick up her phone again. "I'll be sure to pass on that I gave you the appropriate amount of shit, but the other stuff... I think that's a you-and-Ian conversation. Sorry if, um... if that's not what you were hoping." 

"Nah, I mean. Some shit should stay between us, I guess. Right?" Assuming that he and Ian had shit that they kept private from everyone, Mickey thought. He had never been the guy to wax eloquently about his feelings but he must have, with Ian. Or semi-eloquently, anyway. "I wish I knew what our fuckin' relationship was like before all of this. That'd be real helpful."

"Then _ask_ him." Phone in one hand, the fingers on Mandy's other started to twist in her hair as she decided what to say and how to say it. "For years, you two have been all... go big or go home. So when it's been good, it's been your big fat gay wedding. And when it's been bad, it's been beating the shit out of each other or someone running away. So, like. We've all seen the fireworks, we've all seen the explosions. But as for what the _relationship_ was like? You gotta ask Ian about that because I'm pretty sure he's the only one who can really answer it."

"Yeah, yeah." _It's not that easy,_ Mickey wanted to say. Mandy didn't have to look at Ian's face and know exactly how much he was hoping that every word he spoke would jog some memory in Mickey. But he did know that he would have to ask Ian, sooner or later. He needed some kind of roadmap, here.

"Listen, we'll talk soon, okay? Don't get into any bullshit." 

Mandy smiled crookedly and flipped off the camera. 

"I'd say the same but... " She made a vague gesture with her hand towards his image on the screen. "If it gets too heavy, give me a call. See you later, Mickey." 

  
\--

Even though Ian had seen dozens of bad injuries and even his fair share of gunshot victims in his time as an EMT, seeing those wounds on Mickey was totally different. When the nurse first removed the bandages that Mickey had so that she could show Ian exactly how to care for them, Ian had honestly thought he might throw up. The two holes - because that was what they still looked like - were ugly and still raw-looking, even though he could see signs of healing beginning. And it was impossible to not imagine, even if briefly, how close Mickey had come to having those holes in his chest, through his heart, in his head. And even though things between them were awkward and formal and frequently almost uncomfortable, anything but intimate or familiar, when the dressings first came off, Ian reached down to put his hand on top of Mickey's, getting the reassurance that he was here, he was alive, he was going to be okay.   
  


Mickey didn't say anything or move away. For once, Ian touching him didn't feel incredibly uncomfortable; the sight of the bullet wounds made him go a little pale, too. He hadn't seen them yet, not like this. Every time they had changed his bandages before, he had been unconscious - or hadn't wanted to look. Now that Ian was here, though, he felt like he kind of had to. 

It wasn't that being shot was something that seemed outside of the realm of the ordinary. It was just that he had been meant to die. Whoever had fired these rounds hadn't meant to hit him in the arm.

"They used hollow-points, so the bullets expanded," the nurse was explaining. Her hands were careful, but steady. "You'll have to be mindful about keeping the wounds clean."

"We'll keep them clean, don't worry," Ian said, watching closely to make sure he caught every detail about exactly how the wounds needed to be cleaned. He knew it must be painful, but to Mickey's credit, he didn't do much beyond wincing. 

Mickey spoke without thinking. "Yeah, we were real careful the last time I got shot and I had to have surgery in this guy's fuckin' kitchen."

"Yeah, well," Ian said, a bit distracted by what the nurse was doing. "It was your own damn fault for getting buckshot in your ass. At least I got you a real doctor, didn't try to just do it my - " 

He stopped short. 

"You remember that?"

"Do I remember that you told me it was just a harmless old lady? Yeah." 

And then, immediately after he spoke, it dawned on him what that meant: _He remembered something._

It completely shook him.

It hadn't come back to him all of a sudden, in a flash, the way he had been expecting. It was just that that memory - of being shot, of having buckshot picked out of him by Ian's senior citizen fuck buddy - had a link to what was happening now, and somehow, without quite knowing why or how, Mickey's brain had quietly followed that link back to its source. 

"Holy fuck," he breathed.

"Hey, nobody forced you to go back for... whatever it was you went back for." 

Ian was teasing, yes, but his voice was softer. 

"What else do you remember? Anything else from that day?" That had been the day that they'd kissed for the first time. Ian could still remember the way his heart had flip-flopped in his chest when Mickey had ducked back into the van, kissing him awkwardly, not that Ian had even noticed that at the time. "Do you remember whose house it was? Who the doctor was?" 

"I remember being pissed that you were fucking him." That specific feeling, actually, was what Mickey remembered most; it overrode even the pain he was sure he must have felt when he was getting the buckshot taken out. "I don't remember his name. Or why I was pissed." 

Mickey suddenly realized how in the dark he was about their early relationship. He glanced at the nurse, who was bandaging his arm in brisk motions and not acknowledging their conversation. Maybe this was a minefield better not gotten into here. 

Putting the conversation on hold, Ian watched as the nurse bandaged Mickey's arm, taking note of how she treated and covered the bullet holes and just how tightly she wrapped his arm. When she was finished, she headed out of the room looking a little relieved to be doing so, and Ian pulled his chair back over to next to Mickey. 

"Uh, his name was Ned. He was the father of some guy Fiona was sort of seeing, though I didn't know that when I met him. You had just gotten out after being locked up and I'd been hooking up with him while you were inside. That's why you were pissed. It was Ned's wife that shot you." He'd been able to hear in Mickey's voice that even though most of their relationship was still buried, he'd still felt the same anger he had towards Ned when he'd first met him. But if he remembered the bad things about that day surely the good was there, too. "Do you remember kissing me in the van? Before you went in?"

"I kissed you in the van?" 

As Mickey was feeling his way around this new - or old, he supposed - memory, he was realizing that this didn't appear to be an exact science. It was like remembering a dream - some parts were vivid, like Ian's kitchen in the aftermath, and the feeling of anger toward Ned. But some parts were just a collection of scraps, a series of incongruent sounds and images. His brain jumped from one to the other without seeming to feel a need to connect them.

"I don't know. Can't picture it." He lightly touched the clean bandages on his arm, not looking at Ian. 

Ian's hopeful look faded a little. Of course. Of course Mickey remembered getting shot, he remembered Ian fucking someone else, he remembered being angry about that. He remembered all of the bad parts of that day, from the sounds of it. The one part he _didn't_ recall was the one good part. It made Ian want to scream, but instead he just took a deep breath. 

"It was the first time you'd ever kissed me," he said, much more subdued now. "I - well. It doesn't really matter, if you don't remember." 

Mickey remembered clearly what Mandy had said. The only person who might know what it had been like when they hadn't been jumping from crisis to crisis was Ian. 

"What, uh. What were we like, you and me? Was it all - just crazy shit all the time?" 

Ian leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, not at all sure how to answer Mickey's question. Especially given how he asked it. 

"What _were_ we like?"

"Yeah, like... when shit wasn't going sideways, what did we do?"

Mickey could tell that Ian was upset that he didn't remember the kiss, but there wasn't much he could do about that. All he could do was try to get more information, maybe something else that would jog another memory as easily as the first.

"Mandy told me about going to Mexico, but she didn't tell me why I rolled on the cartel. Every time I hear something else about my life, I realize there's a bunch of shit I don’t know."

"Well, I - " 

Christ, what was Ian supposed to say? 

"Things were a lot different when we were kids from what they've been like recently. Like... you were in the closet, real deep. For a long time you wouldn't even admit that you and I were... that I was anything more than a 'warm mouth' to you." He didn't use air quotes but the tone of his voice made it obvious that it was a direct quote. "It took me fucking Ned while you were locked up for you to even kiss me. But, uh. Obviously, the last couple of years have been really different, especially since we got out of prison."

"Yeah, well." Mickey rubbed his nose, looking away again. "I might not remember much, but I remember Terry."

He had thought that he was going to have to be in the closet for life. So whatever had happened with Ian to change that, Mickey could imagine that he'd been a work in progress for a long time. 

"It wasn't _just_ Terry,” Ian said. “You didn't want to admit that we did more than just fuck. Ned called you my boyfriend and you actually beat the shit out of him in the street. It's a miracle he was willing to come after you got shot, honestly." Though it had been Ned's idea, so that probably explained it. 

"What was it like when we got out of prison, then?" Mickey asked.

"When we got out of prison... well, the year that we were in together was the longest we'd ever _really_ been together. I know it sounds crazy, but if we hadn't been in together, I'm not sure we'd ever have gotten back together again. The couple of years before then were... they were bad. They were really, really bad. For me, for you, for us. There wasn't even really an 'us' at all. But when we were locked up together, we finally figured it out. It wasn't perfect, we fought a lot and got on each other's nerves, but it was working. And then when we got out, we sort of settled into life together. I had a shitty P.O. but we had regular jobs and you lived with us, and then... Well, and then we got married. And that was the happiest either of us had ever fucking been." 

Mickey digested all of that, absently picking at a pull in the fabric of the hospital blanket. The way Ian - and Mandy - made it sound, it had been like some sweeping romance, trying to defeat obstacle after obstacle on the way to being happy together. But to Mickey, in the absence of any emotional bond that he could sense, it was hard to understand _why_ they had done it. Could he really have loved someone enough for all of that? 

Mickey didn't have any relationships in his life that he had chosen. He cared about his sister, and Sandy. But those were family.

Mickey had pretty early on in life figured out that he wasn't going to make a lot of friends very easily, so he had never really tried. The part that made him most incredulous about this thing with Ian was not just that Mickey had felt strongly enough to fight for their relationship, but that Ian seemingly had, too.

"We never thought about, I dunno. Calling it a fuckin' day?" 

Ian got up out of the chair, pacing across the room, his back to Mickey. The question stung, even though he knew that from the outside - and that's where Mickey was viewing things from right now, the outside - they looked like total idiots. 

"I tried, once. Not because I didn't love you, I was just in a really bad place. But otherwise, no. No, of course we never thought about calling it a fucking day." 

He kept his distance but turned to look at Mickey. 

"We _love_ each other. I know you don't remember it right now, but... we fucking love each other, Mickey. We didn't walk away, we didn't call it a day, we didn't quit. You _never_ quit on me." It wasn't rational, he knew that, but he was angry. Angry that Mickey would even ask that question. "We're married, for fuck's sake, Mick. Why would you even ask that?"

"Because I don't fuckin' like people, Gallagher." Mickey frowned at him from across the room. He could tell that Ian was upset, of course, but he didn't feel like he was being out of line by asking questions.

"And generally speaking, people don't like me. I ain't got a chip on my shoulder about it, that's just how shit is. I don't need friends. And I never fuckin' needed a - boyfriend. So I'm just trying to understand why I did what I did. And why you did what you did." 

"Then shouldn't that tell you something?” Ian demanded. “Shouldn't that tell you that you must have really fucking loved me and that I loved you? Do you want to know why you rolled on the cartel? Because you found out I got sent to prison and you knew I'd never make it there on my own. So you rolled on them in exchange for serving your time with me. You think you'd do something that fucking stupid if you didn't love me? You might not like people, Mickey, but you _love_ me. And you have since you were sixteen years old." 

Ian ran a hand back through his hair and leaned against the windowsill. He felt bad for losing his temper a little, but it was so damn hard to constantly act like it wasn't killing him to have Mickey look at him like he was little more than a stranger. 

"It hasn't been easy," he said, after a long pause, his voice softer now, and more gentle. "It's been real fucking _hard_. You had to come to terms with being gay, and then your dad was an asshole. And then I had some really big issues of my own. But when it's just been the two of us, it's so good. We make each other laugh, we... make each other happy. I had a couple of other boyfriends while you were locked up the last time, before you broke out. Guys who didn't have a chip on their shoulder, guys who liked having friends. And they were nice, but... they weren't _you._ I fucking... cheated on one just to be with you for, like, a few days. We just work, Mickey. And we trust each other. More than anyone else, you trust me." 

Mickey was totally silent while Ian spoke, not trying to get a word in or even trying to figure out what to say next. He just listened, and when Ian was finished, he stayed quiet for a long moment. He almost didn't believe Ian, though he had no reason not to. Mickey had spent most of his life just trying to survive, looking out for number one, definitely not handing out fucking friendship bracelets and getting close with people unless he needed them for something. Surely he wasn't the kind of man who would roll on a cartel for someone. He didn't have that kind of selflessness inside of him, he was almost certain of it. 

And yet, here was Ian, earnestly insisting that he had. And insisting that Mickey trusted him, which was maybe an even bigger surprise. 

"I believe you," he said at last. "That all of that's true. I just, uh. I don't know, it's like you're talking about someone else. It's different hearing it when you don't feel it." Before Ian could respond to that, he added, "And calm down. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. I'm just trying to understand who I am and why. You ever blackout from drinking and remember like... flashes of the night before? You remember being at the party but not how you got there? That's what's going on in my fuckin' brain right now, except instead of a ten-minute walk we're talking about ten goddamn years. You're gonna have to be fuckin' patient if I ask a lot of questions."

"I know," Ian said. "And I can be patient. I _want_ you to ask a lot of questions. If that's what it takes to bring it all back, you can ask a million. It just fucking - sucks that you finally remember something, one of the most important days in our entire relationship, and all you remember is the bad shit." If Mickey could just remember one good thing - one tiny good thing - about how he felt about Ian, maybe he'd really be able to believe what Ian was telling him.

Ian returned to the chair by the bed, pulling it in close and reaching for Mickey's hand. He wrapped it up in both of his, bringing it to his lips, not so much kissing it as simply pressing his lips to Mickey's fingers, reminding himself what they felt like. 

"It didn't happen overnight," he said. "I know it seems like it was this big-bang change in your life, because that's how it feels, waking up and hearing it. But you letting your guard down, that took a long time. Hell, a couple of weeks before the first time we fucked, you were actively looking to kill me. But that first time - we were at your house, in your room, fighting. Like, full-out fighting. And then you looked at me, and I swear to God, Mick. I honestly thought you'd get me, then. I was pinned, you had the upper hand. And then... I just _knew_. And I knew that you knew. And we fucked, there, in your bed, with fucking _Terry_ sleeping on the couch just outside the door. And it was a long, long time before you said you loved me, before you'd even _kiss_ me. But you trusted me, then. You trusted me with something you thought you'd never tell anyone. And I know you don't remember everything, but if you look at me now, really look at me, I know you'll know down deep that you can still trust me. At the very least, you'll know that." 

Mickey watched Ian holding his hand and didn't pull away. Ian's hands looked enormous around his, and the sight of it tugged at something under his heart that he didn't quite recognize. He took his eyes off of it and met Ian's gaze instead.

Mickey couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking, fucking Ian in his bedroom when Terry was home. But that was pretty much the theme of everything that Mandy and Ian had told him. He didn't see himself in this person that they were describing for him, and it made it difficult for him to even imagine the scenarios they described. He didn't _not_ trust Ian, but equally, he knew that he had his guard up around him without really meaning to.

He decided to try and take Mandy’s advice.

"Look. I want you to keep telling me all this shit, okay? Just... you gotta try and cool it with the whole thing where you watch me and _wait_ for something to come back to me. It feels weird, man. And we gotta... we gotta talk about what's gonna happen if I don't remember as much or as fast as we're hoping."

Ian gave a short, helpless laugh. 

"How the hell am I supposed to do that, Mickey? How exactly do you want me to _not_ be waiting for you to remember? It's already not coming back as fast as I want it to; I don't know what you mean, we gotta talk about what's gonna happen. What's gonna happen is, you're going to come home, we're going to get you better, and I'll keep taking care of you until you remember everything. What, you think suddenly I'm putting some expiration date on this? Fuck, no. I promised sickness and health and I'm holding up my end of the bargain, as long as it takes." 

He knew that he'd lost his temper a little in his frustration about the bits of memories that had come back with no warning, but there was no way he was letting Mickey think that he was gonna walk, just because things were hard now. 

"What if they never come back?"

Mickey hadn't wanted to say that aloud, but this whole conversation was causing a tight, burning knot to curl up in the base of his belly and he was starting to feel on edge. 

"You can be waiting for me to remember," he added. "I'm fuckin' waiting too, believe me." He hesitated again. Never a big fan of talking about his feelings, he especially didn't like it now that he already felt vulnerable, here in the hospital. But apparently he had learned how to do this at some point in the past ten years, so he was going to try. "It just, uh. It makes me feel shitty and guilty when I can tell you're hoping that something came back, and it didn't. If I never get everything back, is it always gonna be like that? You and me can never have a conversation where you're not watching me like a fuckin' hawk? That's a lot of fuckin' pressure."

"Mickey." 

Ian's voice was very soft. He put Mickey's hand back down on the bed, but kept one of his close, his pinky up against Mickey's. 

"They're going to come back, okay? The fact that you're already remembering things is a good sign. Once you're home, and in a familiar setting, once I've been able to tell you more about the last ten years, it's all gonna come back. And, look... I'll try. Okay? I'll try to stop making you feel guilty, that's the last thing I want. None of this is your fault. I don't really know how to do what you're asking, but I'll figure it out. And I'm really gonna try to get Mandy back here. Now that Lip's got his own place, she might be okay staying." It hit him that Mickey wouldn't remember _that_ either. "And, listen. If you think we have a fucked up history, we ain't got nothing on Lip and Mandy."

"Lip and Mandy?" Mickey was temporarily distracted. "Jesus. Well. That checks out, actually. She always picks guys who think they're better than her."

Ian bit back a retort. Truth be told, both people involved in that whole hot mess were guilty of things that had hurt the other, just like it had been with him and Mickey. 

Mickey looked down at Ian's hand near his on the blanket. This wasn't going to be easy. He was going to have to trust Ian, like Ian had told him that he already did. He didn't have much of a choice, since there was no one else promising to help him. He moved his hand just slightly, so that his finger overlapped on Ian's. 

"I'm gonna go to sleep. If we're leaving tomorrow" ( _going home_ , he didn't say, since it felt weird) "I already know it's gonna knock me out. Wish I weren't so fuckin' tired all the time." 

Ian glanced down at Mickey's hand and smiled. 

"Enjoy the downtime while you've got it," he told him. "As soon as you're on your feet, your P.O. will have you back at the mall." His smile widened into a straight-up grin. "In your little khaki shorts and pastel top. Tucked in, no less. Working security, chasing down shoplifters and shit."

"Khaki shorts?" Mickey echoed, sounding faintly horrified. "What the fuck?" 

Part of him hoped that Ian was joking, but lest it be confirmed, he didn't ask any follow up questions. 

\--

The next morning, Mickey let a nurse help him get into the sweatpants and t-shirt that Ian had brought for him. The pants were too long and he privately thought that they might be Ian's and not his, but he didn't ask. Just the act of getting dressed tired him out to the point where he had to sit down on the toilet lid for a minute. 

The nurse asked him if he felt alright; with the arm not locked to his chest in a sling, he offered a somewhat sarcastic thumbs up. Outside of the bathroom, he could hear the doctor giving Ian - and Lip, who had come in Tami's car to give them a lift, not that this was any of his business - the last rundown of what they needed to know. 

Mickey hoped that part of that rundown was about letting him go to bed when they got home.

When Mickey came out of the bathroom, Ian immediately shoved the paperwork he'd been given into Lip's hands and went to Mickey's side. 

"Here... here, lean on me," he said, offering his arm. He knew that Mickey had his pride and all, but from the looks of things, he wouldn't make it to the car on his two feet. "Do you want us to get you a wheelchair to get you to the door?" he asked. 

Mickey leaned on Ian without making a fuss about it. "They got wheelchairs?"

He did have his pride, but he felt weak and exhausted and figured he would worry about pride later. 

Lip waved a quick hand. "I got it."

Ian had gone home the night before for a few hours, sleeping and then washing up all of their sheets and pillowcases (realizing that he had no idea when the last time was it had been done) and making up their bed as fresh as it could possibly get. His stomach was in knots, nervous about what Mickey would think when he saw it. They had their own room, of course, but it was Fiona's old one and it was half the size of the room they'd shared at Mickey's. Not that Mickey would remember that, but even so the space was unimpressive.

"Got a fridge full of cherry jello at home waiting for you," he promised.

As Lip returned, Mickey was only too glad to sit down. He didn't look at Lip when he did it. He might be tired, but he was still South Side and he didn't need to know whether or not Lip thought he was being weak.

"Fuckin' cherry jello, huh?" He asked, as though none of this bothered him. "Love that shit." 

Lip left them alone to bring the car around and Ian started carefully wheeling Mickey out of his room. 

"Yeah, I know you do,” Ian replied. “You're an overgrown fucking five-year-old with your jello and your Snickers bars." 

When they got outside, even as he was helping Mickey into the front seat, reclining it a little for him, Ian felt like a physical burden was being lifted. When he'd walked into the hospital the night of Mickey's accident, he'd truly not known if Mickey would be coming out again alive. Things weren't perfect, but Mickey wasn't dead. That was more than enough for him to get by on.

"I got everything ready for you," he said, as they started the drive home. "Figured you'd want to rest, so everyone else is banished from the upstairs at least until after dinner so you can have some quiet." 

"Thanks." Mickey closed his eyes for a few seconds, head rested against the seat, but the motion of the vehicle made him a little nauseous so he opened them again. "I could sleep for a year."

Turning his head, he looked out the window at the buildings they were driving past. They looked vaguely familiar, the way streets do in a part of town that you don't live in but you've been through a few times. He didn't say anything for a long few minutes, caught up in looking at things he recognized. It was nice to have that feeling again, if only briefly. 

When they got to the house, Lip parked the car and Mickey undid the seatbelt that Ian had insisted on. He took a long look at the house, hoping for a spark of something. 

Ian wanted to ask, he wanted to ask so badly if the house looked familiar, but he didn't. Instead he got out, closing his door behind him, and offered his arm to Mickey again. 

"We'll go straight upstairs," he said. "Steps are right inside the door, and I can help you up." Mickey hadn't refused or even argued his offer for help at the hospital so he was hoping that would be the same now. "I even washed the sheets for you. Fancy as fuck in there, man." 

"Clean sheets? Hope you didn't put yourself out, Gallagher." Mickey sounded sarcastic, but it was at least partly because it was easier to do that than to just accept Ian's help for a second time without saying anything. He took Ian's arm and they made their way into the house.

"And risk you getting used to nice shit? Hell, no. Clean sheets and jello because you managed not to die. Don't expect that all the time." 

Mickey felt an immense sense of relief when somehow, miraculously, no one was in the living room. He didn't bother to look further along into the kitchen, not wanting to come into contact with anyone. 

When he saw the stairs, he winced a little. There were a _lot_.

Even the front steps had taken obvious effort and Ian didn't miss the look on Mickey's face when he saw the inside steps. 

"You can hang out on the couch for a while, if you want," he told him. "But I can't promise any quiet down here. I could, uh... give you a lift? Wouldn't be the first time we've gone piggy-back."

"Fuck me, Gallagher." Mickey did _not_ want Ian to have to carry him up the stairs, but he wasn't about to pass out on the couch in a house where a shocking and ever-changing number of people lived. He could try going upstairs on his own steam, but it seemed like another planet.

Glancing around, he saw that Lip had made himself scarce, so there was at least that small miracle. 

"If you jostle my arm, you're dead," he warned. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm shaking in my shoes." 

Ian rolled his eyes at Mickey then tossed aside the small bag they'd gotten from the hospital with Mickey's odds and ends in it. He turned his back to Mickey and crouched down. 

"Just hold on with your good arm, I'll go slow." 

Mickey wasn't crazy heavy but managing steps with his weight on Ian's back was tricky, given that, injured or not, he knew Mickey would find a way to fuck him up if he did jostle his arm. But they made it to the top of the steps in one piece and Ian immediately put him down even though it was only a couple more steps to the bedroom. 

"Right here," he said, pushing the door open, the nerves and worry about what Mickey would think back in the pit of his stomach. "It's, um... not much. But we haven't saved up enough for a place of our own yet." 

Mickey immediately passed Ian without comment and gingerly sat down on the bed. He would have just laid down on it face-first, but his arm was in the way. 

"It's fine," he said, glancing around at it mostly to humour Ian. It may have been small, but it was clean, and Mickey had never been happier to see a bed. "My place ain't exactly the fuckin' Hilton."

Toeing off his shoes, he carefully maneuvered his way backward until he could lay down.

Ian sat down on the edge of the bed, near Mickey's feet. 

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," he told him. "I'll probably check on you some. Sorry, but I'm not quite out of the whole 'is he still fucking breathing' faze. I won't wake you up, though, unless you sleep until, like, dinner. You'll need to take your antibiotics and shit with food, remember? Um... you got the extra blanket here if you get cold, bathroom is out the door to the left, but if you need a hand getting there, or getting back up, or... anything, just yell." 

Mickey listened while Ian was speaking, but he closed his eyes and mostly let the words wash over him. Ian would handle whatever he needed to do with the antibiotics. The rest, Mickey could figure out after his nap.

Getting up, Ian went to the door, but paused to turn around and look at Mickey again. 

"Welcome home, Mick," he said, his voice a little thicker with emotion that he was working to contain. "Real fucking glad to have you back." 

Mickey couldn't help a drowsy, if snarky, comment: "And you were on _my_ ass about hovering around you when you were supposed to take your pills."

Ian inhaled sharply. His initial reaction was a flash of near-elation, followed immediately by a strong hit of frustration at another _bad_ memory coming back, something he really didn't want Mickey to recall before anything _good_ was there to counter-balance it. 

"You remember me taking meds?" His tone was cautious, which he hoped Mickey would read as him not wanting to push. In reality, he was almost afraid to prod at this particular memory.   
  


Mickey was silent for a second or two, as though he had fallen asleep already, but then he blearily opened his eyes.

"Yeah. Remember that you didn't want to take them. You were pissed that I was trying to make sure you did. Tables fuckin' turned, huh."

"Yeah, the tables are turned. So I plan to pay you back double for all that mother hen shit." 

Ian kept his voice light, stepping over to the bed and gently pushing his fingers back through Mickey's hair. Not kissing him was proving to be next to fucking impossible, and he even tried to limit his touches. But a sleepy Mickey had always been irresistible. 

Mickey closed his eyes again. There was a beat. "What were the pills for?"

"Just for a bad sinus infection," Ian said, praying that Mickey's memory came back before he'd have to come clean with that. "Get some rest." 

Walking back out, he closed the door quietly behind him, pretty sure Mickey was already out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surviving and thriving on these kudos and comments, for real. Thanks for reading!


	4. You're Somebody Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like you told me,  
> Go forward slowly;  
> It's not a race to the end.  
> Well, you look like yourself  
> But you're somebody else  
> Only it ain't on the surface.  
>  \-- "You're Somebody Else", Flora Cash

When Mickey woke up a few hours later, he felt almost more thoroughly disoriented than he had been since the accident. It took him a couple of minutes, eyes open and listening, to come to terms with where he was and what was happening. Very slowly, he sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He considered putting his shoes on, but it seemed like a task he wasn't quite prepared for, so he left them and made his way to the bathroom barefoot. 

When he went downstairs and padded into the kitchen, a redhead - not Ian, a girl, younger (Debbie?) - took one look at him and winced.

"You look worse than me, and I've been in jail," she informed him. "Are you allowed to have coffee? I'll make you some."

"I don't think so," he said. He thought that normally he might play fast and loose with doctor’s orders, but he really didn’t want to risk the worsening of the persistent hammering in his skull. "Can I have water?"

She obligingly poured him a glass. He took it with him into the living room and settled in to watch whatever the younger Gallaghers - Liam and a little girl that Mickey didn't have a hope of recognizing - were watching. 

Liam was side-eyeing him pretty hard, so Mickey gave him the eyebrows. "You need something?"

Liam shrugged. "Can I see your bullet holes?"

"Maybe later." Mickey waved his good hand. "Ian does the thing with the bandages."

"Damn." Liam sighed. "Ian's never gonna let me look at them."

"Yeah," Mickey agreed. "Probably not."

Ian joined them after a moment or two, and Mickey noticed that Liam didn't say a word about bullet holes. 

Supper was a quiet affair by Gallagher standards, presumably because Ian had read them the riot act. Lip wasn't there - had his own place now, apparently - and Fiona was long gone, so the only Gallagher siblings left were the ones Mickey didn't remember very well. By the end of the meal, even though he hadn't had to answer too many stupid questions about the accident or the hospital, he felt that bone-deep exhaustion creeping up on him again and excused himself as soon as he had had a couple of bites of lacklustre spaghetti. 

He made his way slowly upstairs, glad that he had at least gotten enough rest earlier not to need Ian to carry him. He wouldn't have let him, anyway - not with so many witnesses around. 

Ian took a look at the plate that Mickey had left behind and shook his head. No chance he'd eaten enough food with his meds to keep them from upsetting his stomach. 

"Thanks for dinner, Deb," he said, getting up and kissing Franny on the top of the head. "I'll do the dishes tomorrow, just leave 'em." 

Going to the fridge, he pulled out a jello, then grabbed a spoon and headed up after Mickey. 

"Dessert," he said, smiling at him from the doorway of the bedroom, holding the small plastic tub up. "I know you're wiped out, but we should change the bandages now. I don't want to have to wake you up to do that. If you tell me what you want to sleep in, I can help you change, too, if you need it." 

Mickey reached out for the jello and spoon without comment, but he realized that he couldn't peel back the lid on his own with one hand and ended up just sitting with it in his lap. 

"Yeah, we can do the bandages now. I'll just sleep in... underwear, I guess." He yawned. "I can get changed. I got that part." 

"Okay. Here." 

  
Ian picked up the jello and peeled off the top, feeling like an asshole for not thinking to do that first. 

"Go ahead and eat that, I'll get your bandages and shit ready." 

He took a little longer than necessary to make sure that Mickey had time to finish the whole cup even though he wasn't sure that would be enough food. 

"Are you still hungry?" he asked, helping him get his shirt off so that he could start removing the bandages that had been put on that morning. "There's still some garlic bread left. I had, like, three pieces so it's not like I can give you grief about your breath." 

"I'm good." Mickey wasn't really hungry, and he thought that there was a fair to middling chance that he would fall asleep with it in his hand. He knew that he wouldn't get away with eating so little at their next meal, but he could cross that bridge when he came to it. Maybe, after a full night's sleep, he would have fuller batteries for enduring a Gallagher breakfast. 

"Pretty sure you're not gonna breathe in my face too much while you're doing that, so we're probably in the clear. Your, uh. Kid brother was dying to get a look at my arm earlier. I told him you make the rules."

"Which one?" Ian asked before answering his own question. "Gotta be Liam. Carl's seen 'em before. You know, for a while, I hoped that Liam would avoid being too fucked up, but he's probably well on his way. Typical Gallagher, right?" 

He probably went too slowly, making sure that Mickey's arm was properly cleaned and redressed, but he wasn't about to get an infection on Ian's watch. When he was done, he gathered up the trash and stood. 

"I'm gonna toss this and brush my teeth. You can get settled in. You, uh, usually take the outside, but whatever is easier for you is fine with me."

Mickey had reclined against the pillows, cradling his arm to his chest again - however stoic he pretended to be while Ian was cleaning them, bullet holes felt like bullet holes and he was glad that it was done - when what Ian had said sunk in properly. 

"We're both gonna sleep in here?" 

It should have occurred to him earlier, maybe. He had known that this was his and Ian's room. But it somehow hadn't entered his mind that there was a possibility that he wouldn't be sleeping alone during his recovery, like he had been at the hospital. 

Ian paused where he was, still in the doorway. 

"I - figured," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even. He felt like everything he said, every word out of his mouth, had to be said _just so_ , in order to not stress Mickey out or make him feel guilty or put too much pressure on him. "I mean, it's... it's our bed." He tried really, really hard not to show it, but the thought of not sleeping next to Mickey now that he was home made his throat feel tight and his chest ache. Maybe he should offer to sleep on the couch, like it was no big deal, but he couldn't bring himself to. 

Mickey could only look at him for a long few seconds. Mandy had always told him that his emotional radar sucked, but it didn't take a scientist to see that Ian was well and truly rocked by the idea of not sharing a bed with him. Mickey didn't think he wanted to see the look on Ian's face if he doubled down.

"Uh. Yeah. It's our bed." He mostly echoed Ian's words because he was buying time while he thought about it.

What would it matter if Ian slept there tonight? They wouldn't have to argue about it, and Ian had been pretty good about respecting Mickey's physical boundaries so far. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

At last, he shrugged.

"I'll, uh. Stick to the outside."

He should say he would sleep on the couch. Or in Frank's room. Ian knew it. He knew that Mickey was uncomfortable with idea of them sharing a bed. But was that really too much to ask? He had no expectations, didn't plan to even touch Mickey. And to _not_ sleep next to him on his first night home would be nothing short of torture. He'd been doing his best, couldn't Mickey now cut him some slack?

He didn't say any of that, of course, and was obviously relieved when Mickey relented. 

"Okay. I like the inside. And I'll be right there if you need anything." 

Before Mickey could change his mind, Ian headed to the bathroom to toss the trash and brush his teeth, coming back in and crawling into bed without a word, moving carefully so as not to bump Mickey around. The bed was small but still the space between them felt like a mile. 

"Wake me up if you need me, okay? Even if it's something small. I won't mind."

Mickey was very aware of Ian's movements. He was warm, and his weight on the mattress felt almost recognizable to Mickey, though nothing tangible emerged insofar as an actual memory. Mickey could feel how hard Ian was working not to touch him, though, and that made Mickey tense up a little without meaning to.

"I don't like being touched in my sleep," he said. He might not remember prison, but he remembered sleeping with a shiv under his pillow in juvie and group homes. "But you can lay beside me without trying to stay away. It's not the end of the world if our arms brush or whatever. Just don't jog it."

Ian bit back everything he wanted to say to Mickey in response. None of it was helpful, some of it downright biting. He wanted to tell him that he knew he didn't like to be touched in his sleep, or at least that he hadn't until he and Ian shared a bed. He wanted to tell him that he didn't plan to touch him anyway but that it was a pretty shitty thing to say to your husband - even if you didn't remember marrying him - that it wouldn't be the end of the world if their arms brushed. And that his entire life had ground to a stop with Mickey's memory loss and he hadn't complained once but, sure, he needed to be told not to _jog his fucking arm_. 

But what he said out loud was, "Okay." 

He regretted getting into that bed, he realized. He should have slept on the couch because on the couch it wouldn't be such a slap in the face that things were looking pretty damn grim. Turning partially onto his side, away from Mickey, he bunched the pillow under his head, using the motion as a way to disguise swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Maybe after a good night's sleep in their own bed things would look better in the morning. 

Mickey could tell that Ian was upset with him, but that seemed like the one constant in his life right now. He couldn't fix whatever it was, because it wasn't fixable; what Ian really needed was to get back the Mickey that knew what it was like to trust him and could reference their shared history. This version of himself, Mickey thought, was more like a shell, not attached to anything, recognizable to people like Ian who had loved him, but only just. It didn't help that he slept all the time, that he got bits and pieces of memories back with no context, that his arm hurt and made him irritable. The he needed to constantly be taken care of but was wary of Ian touching him. He didn't like it any more than Ian did but it wasn't like he had much control over it. Neither of them had any room to get some space from each other. 

And for Mickey, getting space would mean what, anyway? Without Ian, he had no framework for his life. 

Mickey slept in for a long time the next morning, not so much as stirring when Ian got up. That day and the one that followed were much like his first day, watching TV with whatever Gallaghers were around, eating meals in the kitchen, and sleeping - a lot. By the end of the third day, though, he ended up being able to stay awake for most of the evening to watch a movie and to have a smoke on the steps outside with Ian, and he could tell that however slowly it was happening, he was healing. 

That night, when they went to bed, Mickey realized that he actually felt like he was becoming some semblance of relaxed. He wasn't constantly aware of Ian's every slight movement next to him or abnormally attentive to noises elsewhere in the house, like he had been the previous two nights. He even took a few minutes to scroll through his old texts before he drifted off, something he had mostly been avoiding - although he still stuck mostly to messages from Mandy, not sure if he was ready to read about intimacy with Ian when the latter was lying right there next to him.

To Ian, the days felt like a high-wire act, like he was moving through every minute looking only straight ahead, both figuratively and literally since he was hyper-aware now of not doing anything that would make Mickey feel any kind of pressure. There were signs that time was passing - Liam's after-school schedule on the fridge, the slowly-healing bullet wounds in Mickey's arm - but in most other ways, Ian still felt frozen, stuck in some kind of hole that neither of them could get out of. He found that his mood entirely mirrored Mickey's: when Mickey looked tired, Ian felt tired, too; when Mickey was able to smile at one of Franny's silly jokes, Ian immediately felt lighter; when Mickey was able to eat a little more at dinner, Ian's appetite was bigger. He was no shrink, but he knew it wasn't healthy to continue on that way. At least he'd been able to take Family Medical Leave at work. Mickey might not remember being Ian's husband but the fact that he was still had some benefits. 

At night, he was still keeping to his 'side' of the bed, nearly pressed up against the wall. But as Mickey began to relax a little more with the sleeping arrangement, again, so did Ian. He'd not even attempted to close the gap between them, let alone initiating any kind of cuddling, but as was the case when he was worn out, when he slept, he did so soundly, not waking when he shifted, not so much as even blinking when, in his sleep with his guard down, he'd rolled over against Mickey - as he'd done hundreds of times before - and dropped an arm around him, settling it just above Mickey's hip.

When Mickey awoke, confused and disoriented, with an arm around him, he acted on impulse, throwing the weight off of him and turning, fist raised. It was only when the motion of turning jogged his elbow against the pillow and his arm stridently protested that he properly blinked away sleep and realized that the person he had been about to thump was Ian.

It wasn't until Ian was shoved onto his back that he stirred, eyes blinking open to see Mickey's raised fist above him. Doing his best to skitter away, the wall hard against his back, he brought one arm up to take the blow that looked to be aimed at his face. 

"Jesus Christ, Mick. _What the hell?_ "

"Fuck." Mickey glanced at his raised fist, then lowered it, still coming out of the shadowy, unfamiliar darkness wherein Ian had just been an unknown weight and a shape behind and on top of him. It had been purely instinct to react that way, and though he now knew that Ian wasn't a threat, the extra adrenaline was making his heart race and his hand tremble just slightly. "Jesus Christ, Gallagher." 

He sat up properly and reached over to turn on the light next to the bed, rubbing at his eyes.

"You're okay? I didn't - know that you were you." It wasn't an apology so much as an explanation, but it was all he could manage just then.

"My name is fucking Ian." 

It came out before Ian even realized the words were on his lips and it took a few more seconds for it to register that he'd sounded clearly pissed off. But he'd been startled awake with no idea why and it had been a sore spot since Mickey had woken up, that he rarely called Ian by his first name. Before the accident, when Mickey was giving him shit, it hadn't bothered him, being called 'Gallagher', especially after they'd gotten married and he could call Mickey the same. But over the last week since Mickey had woken up it was just a constant and out-loud reminder that Mickey saw him as a stranger that he wasn't on a first-name basis with.

"Yeah, I know what your name is," Mickey snapped. He scowled, feeling a dull throbbing start up behind his eye that he immediately attributed to being wrenched out of a deep sleep.

"What the hell happened?" Ian asked, rubbing his hand over his face and looking up at Mickey from the pillow. "What do you mean, you didn't know I was me? Were you dreaming?"

"I'm not used to sleeping that deep. Usually I know where I am. When you touched me, I didn't know who it was." And though, if Mickey was being fair, he knew that Ian probably hadn't done it intentionally, he still added: "I told you I don't like being touched when I'm sleeping." 

"I know you don't fucking like it, Mickey. I know more about you than you know about you right now so, yeah. I know. I didn't do it on fucking purpose." 

Ian wasn't even sure why he was angry. Maybe because it had all happened so fast he hadn't had the chance to press down all of his emotions like he'd been doing every fucking minute of every fucking day before speaking to Mickey.

Something happened then, Mickey's first recollection where he became aware of it in real time. The angle from which Ian was looking at him was familiar, and Mickey experienced a visceral shock, like having cold water thrown over him, when the affiliated memory sharpened in his mind:

_'You love me. And you're gay. Just admit it. Just this once. Fuckin' admit it.'_

A punch that came from despair, instead of anger. _Shut up. Shut up._

_'Feel better now? Feel like a man?'_

But Ian didn't shut up, because he couldn't.

And then Mickey had aimed a kick at him so vicious that even now, remembering it, it made his hands shake slightly.

"Holy shit." He had to get up, stumble out of bed, as if changing the angle from which he viewed Ian would make the memory recede, or maybe, if it wasn't real, he would more properly wake up and the dream would disappear in fragments. "Did I fucking _kick you in the head?_ "

"What? No. You didn't even hit me. Hey, come on..." 

Ian could see that Mickey was upset and that caused his own frustration to ebb as he scooted forward on the bed, reaching a hand out since Mickey looked unstable on his feet. And then, as he took a closer look at Mickey's face, he realized that Mickey wasn't talking about what had happened just now, but something else, something far worse, from years before. 

"Come 'ere, okay?" he said, his voice very soft now, gentle. "Sit back down, catch your breath. That - that was a long time ago, Mick." A time neither of them ever talked about.

Mickey's legs felt weak and rubbery, and he sat down on the side of the bed again more out of necessity than because Ian had asked him to. He felt like he had had a bad shock; the memory was intense and immediate in his mind, like it had just happened. And, despite the less-than-positive things he remembered about his life with Ian so far, and the ups and downs that he had heard about second-hand, nothing had prepared him for remembering the exact moment that his boot had connected with Ian's chin. It was the kind of blow he only would've imagined delivering against someone that he desperately wanted to hurt. It didn't make any sense that he'd done it to Ian, and that Ian was here, now. 

"What the fuck, Ian. What happened?"

"Listen..." 

Ian swung his legs forward, over the side of the bed so that he was sitting next to Mickey and chanced a hand on his back, his touch light. 

"That's not really a middle of the night conversation, okay? That happened during one of the worst times in your life and... well, you'll find this hard to believe, I know, but I was pushing you a little. Or a lot. You had shut me out totally. You had a good reason, but I didn't know that, I thought you were just... pussying out. So I pushed, figured if you knocked me around a little, at least you were showing _some_ emotion. The kick, you know... I don't think either of us expected that. But it was a long time ago." 

Mickey tensed when Ian touched his back, but he didn't move away. Ian was being fucking _gentle_ with him again, which always seemed to be where he went after he swung back from furious. It made Mickey uncomfortable, and aware of his vulnerability right now - he hated both feelings, but the second one decidedly more. 

"You don't have to try and make me fuckin' feel better," he said. The fact that Ian wasn't even giving him any details made it worse, because he knew that there were things Ian was glossing over - ugly things, more than likely, and things that he was starting to wonder if he wasn't better off without. He was getting the feeling that there wasn't a lot of good shit for him to try and remember. It didn't help that he had felt irritable and upset more often than not since leaving the hospital, a side-effect of hitting his head really goddamn hard. He didn't have a way of explaining anything he was feeling to Ian, even if he had wanted to. _I thought I wanted to remember my life, but now I'm realizing it was shitty and I don't want that anymore_ sounded self-pitying and constructed to wound Ian, even if it wasn't.

Instead, he reverted to what he apparently was good at: Shutting Ian out. 

"I fucking - I told you not to touch me when I was sleeping. I told you I wanted to sleep alone."

Ian immediately recoiled, his hand falling away from Mickey's back as he stood up, his face looking as if Mickey had physically struck him. He wished he had. 

"Yeah, well, I wanted to sleep with my husband so I guess neither one of us got what he wanted." 

He reached around Mickey to grab his pillow (while very obviously and, frankly, obnoxiously _not_ touching him), then pulled one of the blankets off the bed. He was dangerously close to tears, after keeping everything bottled up for days, but he wasn't going to give the satisfaction of being able to accuse him of trying to play on his sympathy. 

"Bed's all yours, Mick. Anything else I can do for you? You know, besides every-fucking-thing, every-fucking-day? You want to know why you kicked me in the face? You really want to know?"

Mickey realized grimly that he'd gotten exactly what he wanted - Ian going from gentle and accommodating to furious and vengeful - but now that he had it, he was recognizing that he didn't like this any better than its alternative. Instead, Ian's anger made Mickey's even worse, because now he didn't have to feel guilty about giving him shit right back. 

"Did I fucking ask you to do everything for me? You think that's what I want?"

He was seething, but not so much so that he didn't recognize the alarm bells in his mind when Ian asked him if he wanted to know why he'd kicked him. Still, they didn't stop him from ploughing right through.

"Nah, I decided that I don't need to know why I kicked you in the face. We were probably fuckin' fighting, right? More of this shit? Surprise."

"No, Mick. I have no fucking idea _what_ you want. All you've done is make it known what you _don't_ want - me, this house, this life. It's not your fault that all you can remember is shitty stuff but it's not _my_ fault, either. But who cares, right? You've seen, like, ten fucking seconds of our life together and decided you don't want it."

Ian was sorely tempted to just tell him everything, to tell Mickey that him kicking Ian wasn't even the worst fucking part of that entire situation, that what Terry had done had been far worse. But even as he opened his mouth in anger, he knew he wouldn't. Mickey's memory would come back eventually but until then, didn't he deserve the reprieve from having that in the back of his head? Ian couldn't do it, couldn't do that to Mickey, no matter how hurt he himself was. He pressed his lips together, furious when he could feel his chin starting to tremble with the effort of not fucking crying. What was he, five years old? 

"'Night, Mickey."

For the first time since the accident, Mickey didn't sleep like the dead. What Ian had said, about him not wanting their life, had apparently gotten under his skin. It felt like it was true, on its face, especially when Mickey first laid back against the pillows, still furious. But, equally, he couldn't remember anyone ever taking care of him the way Ian had since he had woken up in the hospital. It might piss him off to acknowledge that there were some things he couldn't do for himself - South Side to the bitter end - but he knew that he had been lucky to have someone like Ian to wake up to. He had uneasy dreams once he did manage to fall asleep, and when he woke up, he felt even groggier than usual - a notable accomplishment, over the past few days. 

He was slow-moving when he got up, taking longer than usual to brush his teeth and pull on a fresh shirt. Showering was a hassle with his arm, and he wasn't about to ask Ian to help him with that this morning. When he went down the back stairs toward the kitchen, he found that he couldn't stop rubbing his eyes and yawning.

It was when he reached the last three or four stairs that he overheard Ian on the phone. For some reason, he hesitated for a second, almost deciding to hang back, but ultimately he decided to continue into the kitchen. Going to the fridge, he grabbed the carton of orange juice and poured himself a glass. He still wasn't allowed to have coffee or beer, which had, by all accounts, seriously upended his morning routine.

Ian was just saying, "Yeah, I'll call you back by the end of the day, thanks for your patience," when Mickey finished pouring his juice. He wrapped up the phone call, took the two slices of toast from the toaster and put them on a plate on the counter, nodding for Mickey to take them as he got two fresh slices of bread for himself. 

Mickey glanced down at the toast, but didn't slide the plate toward himself right away. He wasn't sure whether to take it as a peace offering yet. Plus, it was a whole fucking song and dance to get the jam jar open with one hand and he still felt like he was on uncertain ground when it came to asking Ian for help with anything this morning. 

He tried for normalcy (though it came out a little gruff) when he asked: "Who was it?"

"That was, um..." Ian pressed down the level on the toaster - twice, because it never fucking worked on the first try - then turned to look at Mickey. "It was a landlord. Couple of weeks ago we put in an application for an apartment, one that we really liked. And she just offered it to us." 

Ian hadn't slept at all after coming downstairs to the couch, and he showed every minute of the back-half of the night he'd laid there, awake. His hair was a mess, his eyes slightly unfocused with nearly-black circles under them. He'd finally given up on trying to sleep around six, made coffee, spent some time flipping through channels and then, he realized when the phone rang, apparently had sat for an extended period of time doing... nothing. Which wasn't a good sign.

The call was one that he was both expecting and not: two weeks before, he and Mickey had been crossing their fingers that they'd get approved for an apartment that they'd both liked even though they both had shit for credit since the landlady had taken a liking to Mickey; but since the accident, the extent of Ian's future planning had been whether he'd change Mickey's bandages before or after bedtime. 

"No shit?" Mickey was genuinely a little surprised to hear that they had been considering an apartment. As far as Mickey had seen over the past few days, Ian seemed like an integral part of life here in the Gallagher house. "What, uh. What did you say?"

"I - told her that you'd been in an accident and that we'd need to talk about it. She gave me ‘til the end of the day." 

To keep from having to watch Mickey's face as he processed that information, Ian opened the fridge door and got out the butter and a couple of sticky, half-empty jars of jam, putting them on the counter with the toast, still avoiding Mickey's eyes. 

"Thought it might be good for us. Here, I mean... it's your home, too. But I know it doesn't feel like it. Maybe somewhere new for both of us would be better. She's in the office of the building from noon to three, she said. We could go by and look at it again." 

Mickey watched Ian move about the kitchen, aware that Ian was avoiding looking at him. It was probably for the best, because it did take Mickey a few seconds to decide what to say after Ian finished speaking. He wasn't a hard no on the idea, especially since Ian was offering it up in the wake of their argument the night before and it seemed like saying no might put another crack in whatever fragile thing existed between them right now. But he also kind of wanted to see what it would feel like, doing something like this with Ian that was something that normal couples did. 

"Yeah," he agreed, finally. "Okay. But, um. I talked to my P.O. yesterday. He's coming by today. We have to talk about me going back to work."

Now, Ian did look at Mickey. 

"Wait, what? Back to work? Already? You gotta - " 

He stopped himself, knowing he had to ask but also super fucking reluctant to seem like he was trying to tell Mickey what to do. 

"Do you feel up to that?"

"No," Mickey said honestly. "I wanna fuckin' sleep all day. What choice do I have?"

Besides the fact that he still couldn't be awake for longer than a few hours at a time and he was all over the place when it came to his moods, he simply didn't really want to go back to whatever shitty mall cop job he had worked at before - and he especially didn't want to deal with the looks and whatever else he might get from his co-workers when someone had to _re-train_ him on what was probably the easiest job in the world. 

"They can't make you go back to work unless your doctor clears you,” Ian said. “And I don't see how that's gonna happen right now." 

He was relieved that Mickey wasn't in a rush to go back. He'd half-expected him to want out of the house and away from all things Gallagher badly enough to rush back before he was ready. 

"Do you want me there, for the meeting?"

"What? No." Mickey responded without thinking, before he could temper the abruptness of his response. 

He set his orange juice glass down on the counter, and elaborated slightly less gruffly: "I gotta get my shit together. Okay?" He hadn't been in control of much, lately; he wanted to at least come across like a functioning adult to his P.O. "But, uh. Maybe you could be in the house somewhere. You know, in case he has questions about shit I don't remember."

Keeping his expression as neutral as possible, Ian nodded. There was a time when Mickey could read what he was thinking no matter what his face looked like, but that wasn't really the case anymore. 

"Sure, Mick. I can do that. And, um. What about the apartment? You want to try and go see it?" 

"Uh, yeah. Sure. We can go after my meeting." 

The atmosphere had reverted to awkward again, so Mickey pushed the jar of raspberry jam toward him. "Can you do my toast?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having feelings about how much we're making everyone involved suffer in this story. How's the angst treating you guys?


	5. The Way You Used to Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you stay with me tonight  
> Tell me everything’s alright  
> Tell me that you love me  
> The way you used to love me  
> Even if you don’t mean it.  
>  -– “Tell Me That You Love Me”, James Smith

It felt fucking weird to Ian, being stuck upstairs in his own home. It made him feel like he was about eight again and Fiona had sent all of them up to their rooms when they'd walked in on Frank and Monica fighting. Or fucking. Or getting high. Or all three at once. He was restless, had made their - Mickey's? - bed, made Carl's bed, done a bit of pacing, and was finally back in their - Mickey's? - room, when Mickey came back up. 

"We going to look at the apartment or what?" 

"Uh, sure. Yeah, we can, if you want. What did the P.O. say?"

Mickey shrugged. "Nothing much."

He turned and led the way out of the room, and down the stairs. 

"I gave him the doctor's contact information. At my check-in appointment next week, the Doctor'll have to give me a medical note that says how many hours I can work in a day, and when I can go back full-time." 

He glanced back over his shoulder. "For the best if I gotta pay half of the rent, right?" 

"But what if she says you can't go back at all, yet?" Ian asked as he followed Mickey into the living room. "I don't care about the rent, we can get by on my pay for a while." It wasn't like either of them had come from privilege, they didn't need fancy shit. "But I don't want you feeling like you have to go back before the doctor says you're ready." 

"Don't worry about it. Alright?" Mickey grabbed his coat and shrugged it on as they went out the front door, Ian doing the same in his wake. "If she says I can't go back yet, then that's tough shit for Larry. He's gonna be coming by the house more often, though."

"Alright. And, um. Larry's cool. If he comes by more often, so be it." 

They had come to the sidewalk and Mickey realized that he didn't know which direction the apartment was in. "Which way?"

"It's not far, but what do you say we take the bus?" Even a short walk would wear Mickey out and Ian knew how his mood went sour when he was exhausted. 

He didn't speak again until they were on the bus, a couple of blocks away. 

"I'm sorry about last night, Mick. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"Nah, don't." Mickey glanced at him, then away out the window. He was sitting down but he still held onto one of the poles, feeling the same faint motion sickness he had had in Lip's car on the way home from the hospital. He assumed it was a new development and wished that it would fuck off. "It's not that I don't want your life. I just think that maybe it's too early for us to jump back into - married shit. Like... sharing a bed."

"The apartment is one-bedroom." Ian hadn't even really thought about that when they'd made the decision to go and see it. "I didn't - think it through. To be honest, I expected you to say no when I asked if you wanted to see it. Are you, like... sure that it's too soon for that? Just sleeping in the same bed?" 

  
It was bad enough, being banished from his own room (okay, that was a little dramatic) when he could just go sleep in the extra bed in Carl's room. But having to sleep on the couch in his own fucking apartment he shared with his _husband_? No. No, that wasn't an option. 

"I said yes to seeing the apartment because I wanted to do something fuckin' normal with you."

Mickey hadn't really thought beyond that, if he was honest with himself. He had no capacity to imagine them sharing even fewer walls than they currently did, however much of a relief it would be to have some peace and quiet from all of Ian's family members. "Look. I don't know how to be your husband. It's shitty but I can't change it. But we could try something else. And, like. Work our way up. For now."

Ian took in a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he possibly could. 

"Mickey... when have I asked you to be my husband? Really? What have I asked you to do that's - that's _husband-y_? I haven't asked you to kiss me, I sure as fuck haven't asked for sex. I haven't even asked you to wear your fucking rings." 

He stopped for another deep breath, willing himself to not lose his temper, to not raise his voice, to not get emotional. 

"I haven't ask you to hold my hand, I haven't asked you to have a cuddle on the couch when we watch TV, I haven't asked you for one goddamn thing except to sleep in the same bed. You don't know how to be my husband? I don't know how to be your friend. I've been trying, but clearly it's not going so well." 

"Calm down, jesus." Mickey glanced around, but the only other patron on the bus was an old lady sitting right behind the driver. 

"Being someone’s husband is about more than just – physical shit. I'm just trying to set up some fucking goalposts here. At least if we're friends, we both know where we stand. I know you haven't asked me for anything. But you don't have to. I know what you want from me every fucking time we're together."

He didn't want to fight with Ian again. Lowering his voice, he added: "Maybe we don't _start_ with sleeping in the same bed. That's all I'm saying. Why don't you take me somewhere we used to go when we were kids?" 

The beginning of their relationship had been entirely on Mickey's terms, when he was in the closet and Ian had taken any scraps of attention he could get. Then the shift, with Ian making the rules, making demands. Then they'd finally gotten to a point, a healthy point, where they were on equal ground. And now they'd come full circle again. Ian didn't know how the hell Mickey expected him to _not_ want his husband back, how he was supposed to just switch that off, but he didn't bother asking. He just nodded. 

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. I can do that." Though where the hell he could take him that didn't come with a 'we fucked here' story, he couldn't guess. In the end, he decided not to try. "Come on," he said, getting up as the bus slowed, heading to the front. "I'll take you somewhere we used to go as kids." 

Mickey got up to follow him, and they made their way off the bus. He knew that the terms he had set were not what Ian wanted, but Mickey could only give him so much. 

"So tell me about this place," he said, as they began walking. "Gonna assume that wherever it is, we fucked."

"Just keep walking," Ian said, but his tone wasn't gruff or rough. 

It wasn't a long walk along what was clearly a short cut, a worn bike path between small scraggles of trees. 

"Know where we are yet?" he asked, glancing over at Mickey just as they cleared the trees and came to the chain link fence that surrounded their old ball field. "You, uh, probably don't remember, but that Little League team you were booted off of? I was on it, too." 

"Fuck, yeah." Mickey went right up to the fence and curled his fingers through the links, looking through at the field. "I pissed on first base. Man, that coach lost his _shit_."

The memory, perversely, made him smile. 

"My dad was pissed for real, though. He actually bought me my own glove for that season. Drug money, but still. Beat my ass when I got home. No regrets, though." 

"I remember when you did that," Ian said, smiling too, maybe a little tentatively. "The rest of us were so fucking... scandalized." Which was ridiculous, since the team was mostly South Siders who had seen a lot worse at home. But the fact that Mickey had done it in public had been a Very Big Deal in Ian's eyes. 

"Come on." 

He led the way around the fence, closer to the dugout, where they could step up onto the edge of the dugout's frame to climb over. 

"Do you think you can make it? If I help you over?"

"Yeah, nah, I got it."

Mickey's journey over the top was maybe not as graceful as it had been in years past - in fact, he nearly lost his balance and did a header into the dirt - but he didn't want to need help. While Ian climbed over, too, he looked out at the field. 

"So you and me used to come here, huh? Always wanted to come back and fuck here as a big middle finger to what's-his-nuts." 

"Well, congratulations," Ian said. "You made that dream come true. Many times over." 

He leaned against the fence, not making any move to go into the dugout. If Mickey remembered, that would be great. But Ian wasn't going to try to force it to happen. Not when it was far more likely to backfire with Mickey thinking he'd brought him here in hopes of fucking. 

"We'd come here to drink, too, though," he added. "I mean, we usually still ended up fucking. But that isn't all we did here." 

Mickey didn't remember doing the things that Ian had talked about, but he was still glad that Ian had brought him here. The grass was crisp and green, the white lines recently painted. This place reminded him of being a kid. 

Suddenly, a few feet away, nestled in some tall grass that had been allowed to sprout up around a fence post, Mickey spotted an abandoned baseball.

"Hey," he said, bee-lining for it. "Can you still get a guy out at home from second base?"

"Can sure as shit get _you_ out." 

This time, Ian's grin was wide and genuine. It wasn't the same, Mickey wasn't doing this because he knew it was the kind of thing they did. But it did at least mean he was letting his guard down a little. 

"You want to try me? Or you want to toss a few with your good arm?"

In response, Mickey picked up the ball and lobbed it at him. Not for the first time, he was glad for small miracles in that his left arm was fucked and not his right. Grinning, he took a few steps out onto the grass, creating distance so that Ian could toss it back. 

"Better get warmed up first, huh? Don't want you puttin' that shoulder out. When's the last time you threw a ball?"

"Only been a few weeks, actually," Ian said, tossing the ball a couple of times up in the air and catching it. "EMTs and Firefighters have a league that I play in. It's a good outlet when I've got some extra energy to burn out." 

He grinned, tossed the ball to Mickey, trying to aim towards his right side. 

"I'll go easy on you, though." 

Mickey caught the ball in his good hand, though not quite with Ian's ease and grace. To his recollection, he hadn't played ball beyond a few pick-up street games - including one memorable occasion where he had learned his lesson about trying to slide on the blacktop - since the Little League incident, but he only felt a little rusty.

Hefting the ball in his hand, he tossed it back. 

"I ever come and see your games?"

"Every one of 'em. You cheer like a soccer mom, too, when I make a good play." 

Ian tossed the ball, lobbing it almost immediately. He didn't throw it hard, but he had a feeling Mickey might like the challenge of some quick throws, testing his reflexes. 

"We can go to one, if you want. Just to watch, I mean. I won't play." He wasn't about to leave Mickey alone in the stands with people he couldn't remember but who knew him. 

Mickey snagged the ball out of the air again, with one eyebrow that said he knew exactly what Ian was doing. But, sue him: It was nice to feel like he could do something normal with his body. 

"I'll go to one, but I don't wanna be the reason why you're not playing. Up top."

He leaned back and tossed a pop fly for Ian to catch. 

Ian watched the ball coming, jogging back a few steps to stretch up and catch it. 

"You really want to be by yourself in the stands surrounded by people you don't recognize asking you all kinds of questions?" 

This time, when he threw the ball, he put a little bit of heat behind it. Still not enough to be a challenge, but at least taking the kid gloves off since he could tell Mickey was enjoying it. 

Mickey grabbed the ball, unaware that he was smiling pretty damn wide about it, and threw it back without hesitation. 

"You think people are gonna have the balls to ask _me_ questions?" Mickey had to wonder just how soft he'd gotten if the spectators at Ian's ball game were taking an interest in his life. "I'll just tell them to fuck off. They'll figure it out pretty quick."

Ian laughed, and was almost surprised by the sound when it came out of his mouth. He'd gotten sort of _un-_ used to doing it. 

"You can't tell them to fuck off, Mick," he told him, throwing the ball back, trying to put a little bit of a curve on it, to make Mickey need a step or two to catch it. "They'll be asking you questions because I'm sure a lot of them have heard about your accident. You _like_ most of them. Well enough, anyway. And they like you, fuck knows why. Probably because you're more entertaining than the games are." 

Mickey managed to knock the ball to the ground, but didn't quite catch it. He picked it up, pointed at Ian like, _you better watch yourself_ , and tried a curve ball of his own on the way back. 

"What do you mean, fuck knows why? You don't think I'm a likable guy?"

Ian's grin was so wide his cheeks actually hurt, and he flipped Mickey of. He didn't want to over-tire or overextend Mickey, but his next toss back was just a little high, enough to make him reach for it. 

"It doesn't matter what I think. I get to fuck you. They all just... like you, I guess. No sex involved." 

Mickey stretched up to catch that ball, nabbing it in the tips of his fingers.

"So what I'm hearing is that you don't really like me, you just like getting it in. Typical."

He threw one on the ground this time, sending the ball bouncing through the dirt toward Ian. 

This time, Ian flipped Mickey off with both hands when he missed the ball and had to jog a couple of paces after it. 

"Well, you wanted to know what our relationship was like," he said, tossing the ball up to himself a couple of times and eyeing Mickey, like he was planning some kind of wicked throw. But Ian was no pitcher, really, so he settled for a quick shot in Mickey's direction with no warning of when he was going to throw it. 

"And for a while, it was easy. You were in the closet, nobody knew. But then you came out and got all comfortable with yourself and shit, so I had to put a ring on it to tie you down."

"Well, in the nick of time probably, because I'm a fucking catch, man." 

Mickey fumbled the ball but didn't drop it, giving Ian the eyebrows before he threw it back - normally, this time. 

"Bet there were guys lining up around the block for a piece of this. Must've got my knuckle tats redone in prison because they're looking surprisingly fresh. And I can hotwire a car like nothing. Super in-demand in the gay community, from what I hear."

"You are a fucking catch," Ian said. "The only reason they're not lined up around the block is because the last guy you fucked? I kicked his ass. In public. Whole city knows you're off-limits." 

"No shit." Mickey looked a little bit pleased about that, despite himself. "You got a lot of firefighters on your team? Good-looking ones?"

"We play against them, usually. You know, who's got the tougher squad and all that shit? But, yeah. Yeah, I guess some of them are alright." 

Something ticked inside of Ian's chest at that question and his next throw back wasn't as careful as the one before. 

Mickey caught the wild throw hard against his chest. When he threw it back, he threw it hard in retaliation. 

"Just wondering if that's the reason why I come to your games. That's all."

He was goading Ian, of course, the way he often had when they first started spending time together. 

Ian caught the ball with just the slightest wince as it hit his bare palm. He wanted to go along with the jokes; it was so familiar that it would have been easy to slip into the routine of it were it not for the fact that he was worried that Mickey - this Mickey, the one with no memories of him, no loyalties to him, who wasn't in love with him - _would_ find someone he liked better. But the last half hour or so had gone too well for him to ruin it. 

"If anything," he said, sending the ball shooting back towards Mickey, "you come to the games just hoping that one of those guys would hit on you so you could watch me lose my shit and smack 'em around. Never happened, though. You might be likable but you're a terrible flirt." 

"Or," Mickey countered, "maybe I'm worried about you meeting a fireman with linebacker shoulders and _I'm_ looking for an opportunity to deliver a beat-down." 

"Doubtful," Ian said, snagging the ball from the air. "I _had_ a fireman with linebacker shoulders, and I dumped him. You definitely want _me_ to do the beat down thing. You like when I get kinda possessive."

He did an elaborate take on a Major League wind-up, throwing the ball back, though it went wider than he'd intended. 

Mickey scowled and flipped Ian the bird when he had to chase it down.

"I don't flirt,” he pointed out. “That's not a Milkovich thing."

"I dunno. Mandy tried pretty hard with me, back in the day,” Ian replied. “You flirt, it's just that your brand of doing it only appeals to a certain subset of people. But then again, I've seen guys kind of get off on you being a dick to them, so what do I know?"

Mickey was starting to get tired, but this was the longest span of time that they'd had a normal conversation since he had woken up in the hospital and he didn't want to interrupt the rhythm of it just yet.

"Guys kind of get off on me being a dick to them? Are those guys just one guy, and is it you?"

He threw the ball back side-arm like an infielder, finding that it expended less energy than throwing properly.

Ian grinned, closed-lipped, feeling very much like he was fifteen again and Mickey had just shot out some dig at his expense that Ian knew was the only way Mickey showed affection. He felt very... warm, but from the inside out in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. 

"Maybe," he said, saving the theatrics as he tossed the ball back again. "Though you did get hit on a couple of times at a gay club." 

"Fuck off," Mickey said, momentarily distracted. He had caught the ball, but he didn't throw it back right away, staring at Ian. "What the fuck was I doing in a gay club?" As far as Mickey was concerned, he liked dick - but that was the only aspect of being gay that applied to him. A gay club was decidedly _not_ his scene.

Just like when Mickey had asked what meds he'd given Ian a hard time about taking, Ian made a split-second decision. They were having too nice a time together to ruin it with more shitty tales of bad memories. 

"You were kind of like... security for the dancers there. You were _not_ a fan of the old guys who would come in." 

They say the best lies are rooted in the truth. 

“Huh. No shit." Mickey looked like that surprised him to hear, but it wasn't so surprising that he doubted that Ian was telling the truth. 

Tossing the ball back, he added, "You seem like the gay club type. Am I right? Some kind of sparkly-ass get-up with - sequins and shit on it. Bet you were there all the time."

Ian caught the ball and it was his turn to pause before throwing it back. 

"Maybe I was at one point, yeah. But, um, not anymore. Haven't been for a long time. Hey, you wanna go grab something to eat? Get dinner out?"

"Uh, yeah." 

Mickey was glad for the break, even though he didn't say it. He rolled his right shoulder a little, wondering if he would feel it tomorrow. "We got a spot we usually go?"

"Not really," Ian said, closing the distance between them again, hoping that Mickey was going to be able to get himself back over the fence to leave. If not his mood would likely go south. "I meet you for your lunch break when I'm not on afternoon shift and we eat at the food court a lot. But we could go somewhere better than that. I'm pretty fucking hungry all of a sudden, want something more than Sbarros."

"What, like Sizzler?" 

"Sizzler doesn't sound too bad,” Ian said. “Could go for one of their big-ass burgers right now."

Mickey was momentarily distracted from discussing a dinner spot by the need to climb back over the fence. It hadn't been easy the first time, but now it looked even harder from this side. He looked up at it for a long moment, flexing his fingers on his left arm as though to test if it might hold enough of his weight. 

"Fuck," he said succinctly. "You, uh. Wanna gimme a hand?" 

Ian just shrugged as if it was no big deal that Mickey needed help. "Sure thing." He hoisted himself over, then used his height to the advantage, helping Mickey over as well. "Do we need to swing by the house first? Get you some pain meds? Wouldn't be the first time I carried your ass home stoned after dinner."

Mickey was going to say no without thinking about it, but at this point, Ian had helped him with everything from showering to walking, so it wasn't like he had to keep up this stoic front at all costs. Instead, he stopped his instinctual response and gave it some thought.

"Yeah," he decided. His arm always started to get grouchy a few hours after he last took something, and it hadn't loved dragging his ass over a fence twice. "You gonna take one too? Could be a good time. Get kicked out of Sizzlers." 

Ian chuckled. 

"Nah, I think one of us should have his head on straight, now that we're trying not to fuck up parole and all." 

So far, if Mickey had noticed that Ian didn't really drink or do any of the other things that both of their families did on an hourly basis he hadn't mentioned it, and Ian was trying to avoid those questions if he could. 

"Head on straight? When did you get so responsible?" Not that Mickey had a great idea of what Ian was like, but everything he knew about his and Ian's relationship didn't exactly say 'buttoned up'. 

"When I became a married man, I guess," Ian said. "I mean. The threat of going back to jail is also pretty powerful motivation. Besides, I'm too damn hungry to get kicked out tonight. Maybe I'll go steak. What do you think?" 

"A steak, huh. I want one but I'm gonna end up eating like, three bites of it. Fucking head injury." Mickey shook his head. "It's just never as good the next day. Putting it in the microwave ruins it."

They headed in the direction of the bus stop; it wasn't a long walk back to the house but Ian wasn't sure Mickey was up for much more and he really wanted to go out to dinner, to keep feeling _almost_ a little bit normal. "Get the steak, I can eat what's left of yours. I think I read in the small print of the joint savings account that I get to do that." 

"Yeah, pretty sure by state law you will own half of my steak." 

At the bus stop, just as the bus was pulling up, hands shoved in his pockets, Ian gave Mickey a gentle nudge with his elbow, smiling. Last night had sucked but today was... pretty good, at the total. 

Mickey rolled his eyes at him - "Soft bitch" - but couldn't help but smile a little too.

They were only on the bus for a few blocks, but in that time, Mickey managed to fall asleep, slumped against Ian.

Ian was sorely tempted to ride about ten extra stops but he knew Mickey would wake up at some point and probably be pissed. So when they were about two blocks from their stop, he started to say his name, but then he stopped himself. Moving slowly, he tilted his head down and very gently pressed a kiss to the top of Mickey's head, lingering for a second to smell the shampoo in his hair. Eyes closed, he allowed himself the briefest of moments to pretend that everything was normal, that nothing was wrong. Then he sat up again, nudging Mickey's knee with his own. 

"Okay, Sleeping Beauty, we're almost home. Let's get those meds, our steaks await." 


	6. If I Introduce You to My Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I introduce you to my demons, tell me, baby  
> Would you love me less?  
> If you knew the places that I've been?  
> If you knew the damage that I did?  
>  \--"Love Me Less", MAX

Mickey slept in late the next day, worn out from their night out, though they hadn't come home any later than maybe 7:30. He didn't do much beyond eat cereal on the couch and shoot the shit with Carl, who knew a lot about guns and action films, both of which were topics of interest to Mickey. It was Ian's first day back at work since Mickey had crashed his car, and though they had had a perfectly pleasant evening together the night before, Mickey couldn't say that he entirely minded having some time to himself. 

The following day, Ian was off again, and Mickey had decided to finally properly go through the messages in his phone. There weren't many; he only exchanged messages with Ian, Mandy, work, his P.O., and a number that he hadn't saved under a contact name. Ignoring the hockey game that was on TV - Ian had told him that the Blackhawks had won the Cup three times in the last ten years, none of which he remembered, which was bullshit because their last win before that had been well before he was born - Mickey tapped the message thread with his thumb and began to scroll.

Brow furrowing, he handed his phone to Ian. "Who the fuck is sending me pictures of a kid?"

"Hm?" 

Ian was distracted watching the game, maybe for the first time since Mickey's accident _not_ peripherally watching him like a hawk. He'd slept well two nights in a row - or at least as well as he was going to when not in his own bed with Mickey which in comparison was pretty damn good. And even though he'd thought about him all day at work the day before, Mickey hadn't packed his shit and moved out while he'd been gone so that was also pretty damn good, in Ian's opinion. 

So, he'd let his guard down, just a little. He felt relaxed, watching the game with a Dr. Pepper and not even missing having a beer for once, reaching out to take Mickey's phone when he handed it over, his eyes not leaving the television until Mickey's words had sunk in. 

"Wait, what? Pictures of a kid?" 

The number didn't have a name and Ian didn't recognize it. But after scrolling through only two of the pictures in the texts he knew who had sent them. And with that realization, along with the dates of the texts, came the knowledge that Mickey - his husband, Mickey, the one he'd done time with and married and started a life with - had been keeping a very big secret from him. And _fuck that Mickey,_ because now not only had he left Ian reeling, he'd left him holding the fucking bag with what to tell _this_ Mickey, the one who couldn't remember their wedding let alone the big fucking secret he'd been hoarding. And the reasons behind it, not that Ian couldn't guess. 

Mickey watched Ian's face drain of colour and knew two things immediately: that Ian recognized the pictures, and that it was no cause for celebration. Mickey could not imagine for the life of him what fresh bullshit awaited him to learn about from his past - there had been a lot of completely unbelievable shit so far, so Mickey was a little incredulous that anything could be even _more_ fucked up - but whatever it was, Ian seemed surprised to see it and _did not like it._

“I – ” Ian scrolled back through a couple more pictures, then abruptly handed the phone back, getting off the couch and going into the kitchen now wishing like hell he could have that beer. 

Mickey blinked, startled, and got to his feet a moment later to follow him. "Ian? What the hell?"

To be honest, the look on Ian's face made him dearly wish that he didn't have to ask, but something about Ian's demeanor made an uncomfortable tension curl up between his shoulder blades and he knew that he had to know whatever it was, for better or for worse.

The pictures that Ian had seen had been coming for weeks, months. Not many - never more than once or twice a month - but for a while. Long before they'd gotten married. And Ian hadn't even scrolled back the whole way. He'd kept nothing from Mickey that he could think of, certainly nothing major, but Mickey had been sitting on _this_ and not told him? Had he thought Ian would object? Surely Svetlana knew that they were married but she'd not cut Mickey out of Yev's life even though Ian wasn't high on her list. So, why hadn't Mickey told him?

He was facing the sink, hands braced on the edge of the counter, head hanging down when Mickey came into the kitchen. 

"I didn't know about the pictures," he said, feeling both like he was confiding in someone _and_ betraying a confidence at the same time, to the same person, about the same person. He didn't turn around to face him, couldn't look at both the Mickey who'd just hurt him and the Mickey who had no clue what was going on. One person, both guilty and not. 

"Okay." It came out with a hint of a question in it, because yes, it answered the question of why Ian was upset, but it provided no context for Mickey. If anything, he was more lost than before. Should Ian have known about the pictures? Had Mickey been _hiding_ something from him? 

Mickey didn't move any closer to him, staying a few steps back, watching him.

"Who's the kid?"

Ian shook his head, not answering. For once, he was glad that Mickey was keeping his distance, not the other way around. There was no way of telling Mickey who Yev was without telling him how Yev even came to be, and that was not a story he needed to know, not when his memory could come back any day now. It wouldn't be something he'd even want to know. 

Or would he? Ian had been under the impression that Yev had no part in Mickey's life. He wasn't an idiot, he knew that Mickey had never dealt with what had happened that day, knew that in his own way he'd cared about the kid. But he'd never been able to let himself really _love_ him, and he'd made no mentions of Yev _or_ Svetlana to Ian. But Svet hadn't just sent those pictures magically or randomly. Mickey had a new number, which meant _he'd_ reached out to give it to her, which made Ian wonder just how long they'd been in contact. A hundred questions for no answers, none of which helped him figure out what the fuck he should do _now_. 

"He's a... relative. That we - helped take care of for a while." Even to his own ears it was a fucking terrible lie. Still at the sink, Ian turned around to watch Mickey's face. "His name's Yevgeny." 

Mickey stared at him for a long few seconds, as if waiting for more of an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he made a gesture with his hands that was so clearly w _hat the fuck, Ian_ that he might as well have shouted it.

"That's it? You're in here losing your shit over some cousin or something that we used to live with?" He didn't buy it, and it was obvious in his tone. He was starting to notice more, now that he wasn't so tired and foggy, that Ian wasn't always forthcoming with details about what had happened in their lives, particularly if those details shed a negative light on their relationship. 

He knew that Ian was upset, but he also grimly acknowledged the fact that Ian couldn't exactly be upset with _him_ \- not when Mickey had no idea what he was talking about.

"You can't be the gatekeeper of what I get to know or don't get to know about my own life, Ian. It's my fuckin' life."

Ian had been watching him closely but saw no recognition at all on Mickey's face at the mention of Yev's name. What few memories he'd recovered had come in bursts, seemingly spurred on by familiar things, and Ian had been afraid that just hearing his son's name would cause a whole tumble of things to fall into place in Mickey's head. In a way, that might have been easier. 

"No, but I am your husband," he told him. "Whether you remember it or not. Hell, whether you want me to be or not. And that means it falls to me to look after you when you're not able to do it yourself. It's kind of part of the deal, sickness and health?"

"Holy fuck, Ian." Mickey shook his head, still staring at him. "You think looking after me is keeping shit from me? You think that's helping?"

By all means, he thought, when he'd been in the hospital and barely awake or lucid, go ahead and be sparing on the details about them beating the shit out of each other or Mickey fucking off to Mexico. But now that he was starting to feel more like himself, the fact that Ian was deliberately twisting things was starting to get under his skin. Mickey wasn't even sure if any of what Ian had told him so far was the whole truth, and that didn't sit well with him. 

"What if I call this number?" He demanded. "Who's gonna pick up?"

"Don't call the number, Mick. Please." 

There was a pleading edge to Ian's voice. If Mickey called Svetlana, she'd probably tell him everything, in that blunt, 'life sucks for everyone' kind of way she had. And Mickey shouldn't hear about that part of his life from anyone but Ian. 

"Some really bad things went down, Mickey. So, yeah, I obviously think I'm helping you by not dumping it all on you. Why else would I do that? I'm not the one of us who keeps secrets."

"I don't know why I kept that shit from you,” Mickey said. “Can't even begin to figure it out, actually, because you won't even tell me what the fuck I was keeping from you."

Mickey rubbed his face. This kept happening; things would even out a little between them, and then, without warning, some other bomb would drop. The only way to keep it from happening again would be if Ian told him everything, but Mickey didn't even know if he could trust him to be truthful about it - and, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure that he could properly process all of it at once. Every new thing that he learned just reinforced his belief that there had to be worse shit waiting just around the corner and it had already been _so much._

"You gotta tell me who the kid is, Ian. You have to. No bullshit on this one."

Ian wanted to shake him. He wanted to grab Mickey by the shoulders and just _shake_ him until the memories came back and he explained why he'd kept this from Ian and they could just move on with their lives again. But he couldn't do that. And now that Mickey had seen the pictures, now that Ian knew that Mickey had cared enough to stay at least semi up to date on Yev's life, he couldn't very well keep it from him anymore. 

"He's your son," he told him. "Yevgeny is your son."

Mickey could not have looked more astonished if the floor had opened up and swallowed him. There had been a niggling in the back of his mind, maybe, when Ian had refused to tell him the identity of the kid, that it could be something like this - but hearing it confirmed now made him understand how little he had truly anticipated this outcome.

Dropping his gaze from Ian's, Mickey fumbled with the phone and opened the screen, looking down at the photograph on it. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears. He half-expected some sudden, jarring memory to come back, jangling and off-key, but nothing did; he didn't feel anything except shock. The kid, he thought, didn't even really look like him that much. _Maybe around the eyes._

Abruptly, he jammed the phone back into his pocket and turned around. "I'm going out for a smoke."

Ian didn't respond to Mickey, didn't even react. It wasn't until Mickey had gone out the door and Ian's shoulders had slumped forward in relief that he realized just how tense he'd been. He couldn't begin to deal with the fact that Mickey had been keeping this from him, not yet. So instead he focused on how to do damage control, what he could tell him now that would satisfy Mickey's curiosity enough that he wouldn't just call Svetlana and hear the whole sordid, damaging tale from her. It was emotionally fucking exhausting, all of this, constantly trying to weigh what to tell Mickey and when, Ian realized. He'd thought that Mickey losing his memory was painful but being the one responsible for telling him all he'd forgotten was a job Ian almost wished was someone else's. But, then, of course he didn't, not really. It was all just so fucking hard.

With a sigh, he grabbed his own pack of smokes, went outside, and sat down next to Mickey on the back steps. 

"You used to sometimes bang girls.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, so Ian continued. “Sometimes it was to try and stop thinking about me, but usually it was to keep up appearances, you know? You had to do it, to make your dad think you weren't gay. And, Svetlana was a whore - or, um, sex worker, sorry - for a while, and your dad used to go to the place she worked. And so, you fucked her and she ended up pregnant." 

He swallowed hard, took a long drag, then barreled on ahead. 

"Your dad made you marry her. And things were a mess for a while. You and I didn't see each other for a long time, but then we kind of put it back together and, actually, for a while the five of us - Svet decided she was gay, too, or maybe bi, I was never clear, but she had a girlfriend - all lived together and were kind of happy. But, um. Then I got into trouble for some stuff I'd done while we were apart, and you ended up back in jail. And Svet met someone and got married and moved to... Kentucky, maybe? And that was the last I heard from her. I thought it was the last you had too, until tonight." 

It was a sanitized version, brillo'ed down to rough and painful edges with big pieces missing, Ian keeping back the worst of what Terry had done, the worst of what he himself had done. If Mickey needed more than that right now, Ian couldn't give it. 

For a long moment, Mickey gave no impression of his reaction as he tossed his cigarette and lit a second one. 

He had thought about a lot of things over the past five minutes or so. Everything passed through his mind and then tried to settle, tried to come to some sort of agreement about how he felt, but none of it seemed to be able to coalesce into one thing. _I never even wanted kids_ and _When the fuck are we going to come to the bottom of all the fucked-up shit from my life that I should know._ And, of course: _What the fuck do I do now?_ He could guarantee that Ian would never have told him about Yevgeny had the pictures not come up in his phone, or at least, not anytime soon. Ian seemed determined to keep on sanitizing everything that had happened before, and while Mickey didn't really blame him - a lot of it was hard to stomach - there were some things he was entitled to know. Like the fact that he had a real, flesh-and-blood kid. A kid that he apparently gave a least a little bit of a shit about, even if he lived out of state and never saw him.

It didn't escape him that Terry had always been the 'family and bloodline' guy, who, despite being a substandard parental figure on his best day, at least had kept all of his kids under one roof (except for the memorable year they spent in foster care, but even then, when he had come back, he had come back for all of them). _Figures that I'd be an even worse dad than fuckin' Terry._

"Why don't you blame me for any of this shit?" He hadn't known what he was going to say until he said it. "You keep making excuses for me. Like when I kicked the shit out of you. And now, with me fucking girls - and Russian ‘sex workers’, apparently - while we were together. You don't gotta pretend like you were never mad at me. I'm not gonna bail because you're pissed at me, especially if I deserve it."

"Oh, I got mad at you plenty," Ian said, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. "Probably about half the time, you actually deserved it." It was no secret that Ian had had his fair share of irrational moments. Well, it was a secret to Mickey, he supposed. "And you fucking girls while we were together - it wasn't that simple, Mick. You were so deep in the closet. I got pissed sometimes, but I was never mad that you fucked Svetlana, okay?" He looked over at Mickey, his voice quiet but emphatic. "I was _never_ mad at you for that. You only did what you had to do to keep Terry from fucking killing you." At some point, Mickey's memories would be back and Ian wasn't leaving any doubts to fester in his head about how Ian had interpreted that whole sick and twisted situation. 

He sighed and stubbed out the butt of his cigarette. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Yev. I had no idea at all that you were still in touch, I... Mick, you literally _never_ talk about either of them, and I've learned to just follow your lead on some things. I think the fact that you kept all of that from me before should tell you why I didn't mention it yet now."

Mickey ran his hand down one side of his face, looking out into the yard. It wasn't easy to look at Ian when he was obviously feeling something deeply and being incredibly earnest. Mickey could still tell that there was more than he was saying, but he was tired of pushing it. 

"It's fucking weird that I have a kid, man." He looked down at his hands, rubbing at the faded 'F' on his knuckle. "I don't want kids. I never did. I know it was an accident but it just doesn't seem - real. And I don't understand why I wouldn't have told you that I was checking up on him. It doesn't make any sense. _Fuck_ me. I'm really fuckin' tired of this. You know? Of not knowing shit."

"We talked about it," Ian said, glancing over at Mickey again. "Having kids. At first, you said you didn't want any but then I told you that I did and... you seemed kind of open to it. Like you actually might be kind of into the idea." Thank god this accident had happened now and not in five years or something, when their little family might have included more than just the two of them. 

Ian lit another cigarette, sitting in silence until it was nearly gone. 

"It, um. It actually does make sense, why you didn't tell me. I'm pissed about it, kind of... hurt. But it does make sense, I'm pretty sure I can guess why. I - lied to you about something a few days ago. And I know you're going to be mad, just... please try and understand why I did it, okay? That memory you had about the meds I was taking? Those weren't for a sinus infection." 

He had to stop for a second. He'd not wanted to tell Mickey any of this, had worked so hard to cling to control over the mood swings he'd felt himself careening towards due to lack of sleep and shitty diet and more stress than he'd ever felt in his life. And now he couldn't help but feel like this was going to be the final nail in the coffin that held the very little interest and optimism Mickey felt for their life together, the one he'd woken up to. 

"I'm bipolar. I've been on and off meds for a long time, but I've been on them continuously since we were locked up together. It's the longest I've stayed on them since I was diagnosed. But, yeah, um. Before we knew I had it, I kind of went off the rails. It was when we were all living together. I was up for a long time, like, _really_ up. You were working, I was helping take care of Yev during the day because I was working nights and not really ever sleeping. I fucking loved that kid, Mick. And he loved me. But then the - the bipolar got out of control and it wasn't really... safe for me to be around Yev. I went on meds for a while, when you were locked up, but then I stopped taking them again and things got real crazy for a while, and Svet... well, she's had plenty of reasons to not like me or trust me. Things get pretty fucked up when I'm not on my meds. So, my guess is she told you I'm never allowed near Yev and you just didn't have the heart to tell me." 

He hadn't looked at Mickey again, was, in fact, very purposefully _not_ looking at him, keeping his gaze down on his hands, watching the ash fall off the end of his cigarette and onto the porch step. 

"Fuck me, Ian." Mickey shook his head very slightly. He was past being shocked. Ian could literally fucking tell him that he turned into a squid at sundown and Mickey would've just shrugged and nodded. "What the fuck was I doing while you were going off the rails? Fuckin' - how did I not notice? Kind of sounds like you're making excuses for me again. Which I told you that you don't gotta do."

All of this shit that they had apparently dealt with and moved past - well, it didn't seem to Mickey like they'd done a very good job of it. When Ian spoke about it, it was like a new hurt all over again for him, and Mickey didn't need to be an emotional savant to recognize that Ian was afraid of unloading too much onto him - like the fact that he was bipolar - at once lest he fuck off and never come back (which Mickey couldn't exactly say that he hadn't thought about at all, not that he would mention that aloud to Ian).

"I don't know what you even mean by that, Mickey," Ian said, again having the completely disorienting feeling that he was betraying Mickey... to Mickey. "I'm not making excuses for anything, there isn't anything I need to make excuses for you for. We both have screwed up, both made mistakes. If we forgive and move on, what's the problem?" He hated that Mickey kept saying that. If he thought Ian was letting him off the hook, that meant he probably would think the reverse was true when - if - he found out all the shit Ian had done. 

Mickey was silent again for a long moment.

"Bipolar, huh. Aren't you supposed to keep your stress low and have a routine and shit?" Mickey didn't know exactly how he knew that; when Ian had first used the word 'bipolar', he had blanked, but bits and pieces of information were surfacing - not that he was entirely sure if they were accurate. "Not exactly been doing that. And you _didn't fuckin' tell me_ so I'm gonna guess that all of that shit is not going so great."

"I'm managing,” Ian insisted. “You don't need to worry about me. I haven't missed a dose, I've been eating well the last few days. And can you blame me for not telling you? Really? It's pretty damn clear to everyone you don't get why you're with me, that you're disappointed with the life you woke up to. You think I wanted to give you even more reason to have no interest in it and me?" 

"Yeah, I think I can blame you for not telling me. Because it's like, the seventeenth thing in a long line of things that you haven't told me." 

Even though he understood why Ian was doing it, Mickey was just tired. Nothing was clearly defined in any of Ian's explanations; the goalposts kept moving; more often than not, they were arguing. On top of that, he was beginning to realize the disadvantages of having been so solitary and unlikely to make friends: He only had an impression (and a vague, shaky one at that) of what kind of person he had been with Ian. He didn't have the first idea of what he had been like, and what his life had been like, through any other filter.

"I'm not disappointed with my life. I just don't fucking _get it_."

Ian frowned. "There's a million things I haven't told you. How the fuck do I fill you in on the better part of a decade in days? You know your family, you know mine, and you know how shit life on the South Side is. Why would I dump all of the bad stuff we've been through on you when you... when I can't make you understand the good? It's not about _getting_ it, or understanding it. It's about how we feel about each other. And I understand you can't force yourself to love me, but you haven't even tried to - to - feel _anything_ for me. You know you loved me, you know you married me. But you breeze past anything I try to tell you about that. Maybe if you'd let me touch you for something other than cleaning the holes in your arms, you might start to _fucking get it_." 

Even as he finished speaking, his voice raised a little, Ian was holding a hand up, either to keep Mickey from responding or as a sign of apology for what he'd said. 

"I - can call Svetlana tomorrow and let her know what's going on. She'll talk to me if it's about you." 

Mickey blew right past that. "I haven't tried to feel anything for you?" He demanded. "Right. And you're making that real fuckin' easy." He could feel his headache - and he had started to think of it as _his_ headache instead of just _a_ headache because it was pretty much a constant feature since he had totaled the car - step up a notch, behind his eye.

"Well, if you have, you haven't let me in on it, that's for damn sure." Ian really didn't want to fight. Sometimes a good throw down with Mickey was just what he needed, but not with this Mickey. 

"You know what?” Mickey said. “Fuck you. I sleep all day when I'm not taking painkillers and my brain is fucked, Ian; I don't even feel anything for _me_. I don't know who I'm supposed to be, never mind who the fuck I am with you. Can you give a guy ten goddamn seconds to get his shit together?"

He stood up, jamming his lighter into the pocket of his jeans, giving a quick, aborted shrug. "Fuck it. Don't call her. I can do it myself. Tomorrow. Right now I'm going to lay down before you give me a fuckin' aneurysm."

"Mickey, please. I'm fucking begging you. Don't call Svet. At least not until I've talked to her first. _Please_." 

There was a sick bubble of panic in Ian’s stomach at the thought of it. If Mickey asked her about all of the things Ian wouldn't tell him, Svetlana would likely be more than happy to do so, especially all of the things that would make Mickey wonder why he'd ever even considered coming back for Ian. 

"So you can tell her to bullshit me?" 

Mickey shook his head.

"Look. I get why you're doing what you're doing. But my whole life can't be about what's gonna affect my relationship with you. Right? At a certain point, I deserve to know about my son, and if he even fuckin' knows who I am, maybe he'll wanna hear from me that I'm not dead."

He turned around, and went up a step to the porch. Pausing there, he added, "I'm gonna call her tomorrow. I can't stop you from doing whatever you're gonna do."

"You think that - " 

Ian stopped himself and shook his head. If Mickey thought that Ian's only concern was a selfish one, maybe he would limit his questions for Svetlana to all of the fucking up Ian had done, and the conversation would never go to what Terry had done. Ian would rather Mickey hear in detail about all of the guys he'd cheated with when manic before he was diagnosed - hell, he'd rather Mickey watch videos of it - than have him hear about that afternoon in the Milkovich home. 

"I would never keep you from you son," he told him, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. "I would never fucking do that. I'm just asking you... give it a few days and see if your memory comes back before you call." 

"Yeah. Well. I'm starting to wonder if it's gonna come back. And then what?" Mickey had had that niggling fear lurking darkly in the background of everything since he had woken up in the hospital and found out that he didn't remember most of his life. He was tired of entertaining it. He was especially tired of not being in control. He couldn't force his memories to come back, but he could try and make it matter less if they didn't.

"Not gonna be sitting on my ass, waiting around for a day that ain't coming." He shrugged again. "Gotta figure my shit out and if I get my memories back, it'll just have to be a bonus. That's why I gotta go back to work. And that's why I gotta figure out this thing with my kid."

"Yeah, Mickey."

Ian stood up but stayed on the step where his feet were, meaning he had to look up at Mickey. 

"Then what?"

He held Mickey's gaze, almost daring him to say it out loud, to tell Ian that if his memory didn't come back he'd be leaving to find a life he liked better. 

He wasn't sure what Mickey's intention had been but the words cut deep. Their whole life, nothing more than an afterthought for whatever new life Mickey put together. He could feel a crash coming, the weight of the knowledge that no matter how hard he worked to be optimistic, there was a stack of signs that Mickey would be moving on sitting square on his chest and pushing him towards it.

"I'm gonna go to Lip's." 

If he was hoping that Mickey would say something to stop him or to make him feel better, it didn’t happen. He wasn’t sure that this version of Mickey knew how.

The walk to Lip's wasn't a long one but by the time Ian got there he felt almost numb inside. And as much as he'd have liked to believe it was his own superior ability to deal with his emotions, he had a feeling the real reason was because his brain and body were about to shut down on him. Or maybe he'd just finally broken, had reached the point where the pain was so fucking bad that he'd almost... reset himself to start all over, maximum level reached, nothing else to do but go back to level one and let it all build up again. 

It wasn't that late when he got there but he knocked softly, not willing to risk the wrath of Tami if he woke the kid up. 

When Lip answered the door, he took one look at Ian and pulled him into the house. 

"Fuck, Ian.” He kept his voice low. “You look like shit. Tell me what you need. You want me to call your doctor? Or you think we can head it off by going for a walk?"

He had seen this happen enough times with Monica to know that Ian was hanging on by his fingernails. 

"Neither,” Ian said. “I walked over here and that didn't help. And I'm definitely not going to the doctor."

He knew that under normal circumstances his meds were working so he didn't need to change them, and he sure as fuck didn't want to sit and talk to anyone about whether or not he was having 'any thoughts about hurting yourself or others'. 

"I just need..." He shrugged, no idea how to finish that. "Can I crash here tonight? I don't mean, like, _crash_. Just sleep."

"Yeah. 'Course. Come on. Actually, this is great; I've got a guest bedroom almost done. You can have the inaugural sleep."

Lip gave him a light clap on the shoulder that ended in a squeeze and indicated that Ian should follow him.

"It's got all your favourite amenities: the light switch doesn't give you an electric shock when you turn it on, the weird mould stain shaped like Texas on the closet ceiling is gone, and I'm pretty sure no one's died in there." 

"Yet." 

Ian had meant it as a joke but realized belatedly that, given how he must look, it probably wasn't very funny.   
  


"You think I can shower?" he asked, already looking ahead to morning and the very real possibility that, unless he bounced back after sleep, he might not feel like doing it then. "And some clothes? This is sort of an impromptu visit, didn't really pack a bag. _Shit_. Didn't even grab my meds." He'd just sort of left, hadn't even wanted to go back inside the house when he'd gone. 

"Okay." Lip took that in stride. "I'll go grab your meds while you're in the shower."

He opened the hall closet and grabbed a blue towel that looked worn but clean and passed it to Ian. 

"Tami's in bed but she's not sleeping. I'll go in and grab some of my clothes for you to sleep in and leave them outside the bathroom door. You need anything else from the house? Toothbrush?"

Ian shook his head, taking the towel. 

"No, just grab the meds. You don't, uh - you don't even need to let anyone know you're there, okay?" 

By 'anyone', it was clear he meant Mickey. The last thing he needed was for him and Lip to have a run-in. 

Lip nodded; Ian didn't need to tell him to be discreet, but at least now he had it confirmed that it was Mickey's fault that Ian was here, like this. Lip had always been a little on the fence about Mickey in relation to his brother, and while he knew that Ian didn't need his help in that department, he couldn't lie to himself and say that he was opposed to laying Mickey out if the situation arose. 

"I didn't wake up Fred, did I? Is Tami mad?" 

Lip shook his head. "You didn't wake up Fred, you're good. He'll be excited to see you in the morning. Uncle 'Een' is his favourite, you know." 

"Damn straight I'm his favourite. But, you know, if I'm not doing so hot in the morning, don't let him see, okay?" 

In the end, Ian ended up sitting in the shower with the water pouring down over him. He was exhausted in every manner of the word and standing felt like too much effort. He knew he was being a coward, running away so that Mickey wouldn't see him like this and so that he wouldn't be within striking distance, physically _and_ verbally, the next day after he'd talked to Svetlana. But knowing the blows were coming didn't mean they'd be easier to take when they did, and he wanted to put them off a little while. 

After the shower, he threw on Lip's clothes, _very_ quietly opened the door to Freddie's room and peeked in on him, then went to the kitchen to dig around for something to eat with his meds. 

Lip came into the kitchen a minute or two after Ian, setting his pill bottles down on the counter.

"Want something to eat? I got sandwich stuff in the fridge and there's a Tupperware with spaghetti in it from earlier. No beer in the house but I have caffeine-free Pepsi because, you know. I'm turning ninety-eight next month." 

"Beer is the last thing I need right now anyway," Ian said. "A sandwich would be good." Spaghetti was dinner food, and he knew that Lip and Tami weren't exactly flush so he didn't want to take that when he'd just shown up unannounced. He picked up one of his pill bottles and studied the label as if it was fascinating reading he'd never seen before. 

"Did you see anyone at the house?"

Lip knew that Ian was avoiding his gaze, so he kept his tone light when he said, "Just Carl. Definitely up to something but I try not to ask questions that I don't want to know the answers to. Sit down, I'll make you a sandwich."

Lip grabbed a plate out of the cupboard and went to the fridge for meat and cheese. 

"You know, I say this with love, but you look like dogshit. What's up?" 

Ian hadn't even totally realized that he was still standing, but he took a seat at Lip's kitchen table, opening up the different bottles of his meds, taking out the pills he'd need. 

"Oh, not much. Just that my husband almost died and then lost his memory and doesn't want to be married to me anymore. Oh, yeah, and before the accident, he'd been lying to me and I had no idea. Well, not exactly lying but... keeping a big fucking secret. He and Svetlana have been texting, she's been sending him pictures of Yev, and he never mentioned a word. I'm assuming it's because she hates me and he didn't want to upset me but because he's been keeping it from me, I was completely fucking floored when he showed me his phone tonight all, 'who is this kid I get pictures of?' before then getting pissed that I hadn't told him about his kid. You know. Just your normal, every-day couple problems."

"Yikes." Lip glanced over at him while he assembled sandwich ingredients. Ian's order was easy, had always been the same - ham, one slice of cheese, mustard, no mayo, no lettuce. Lip could have made it in his sleep. 

"Makes it hard for you to give him shit when he doesn't remember doing it." 

Cutting Ian's sandwich in half diagonally the way Fiona used to do, Lip brought the plate over and set it in front of him with a glass of water. He sat down across from Ian with a can of the decaf Pepsi, mostly to not be empty-handed. 

"He said that? That he doesn't want to be married?" 

"Thanks," Ian said, taking a big bite of the sandwich, giving himself time before answering. "He doesn't have to say it. It's all over his face, twenty-four hours a day. I'm starting to wonder if... you know, if subconsciously or whatever he's not letting the memories come back. Maybe he's been unhappy or wanted something better for a long time, and now he's got his chance. As long as he has no memory of our life together no one can get mad at him for not sticking around for more of it, right?"

He used one hand to slide his pills off of the table and into his other palm, tossing them into his mouth and washing them down with two swallows of water. 

"I told him about the bipolar. Needless to say his reaction was a little short of supportive and understanding. And... he's calling Svetlana tomorrow to tell her about the accident and probably to ask her everything I won't tell him. Which means he's going to hear all about when I took Yev and so by this time tomorrow I'm pretty sure he'll have packed his shit and left."

He lifted up the other half of his sandwich but then put it back down before taking a bite. 

"I really thought that this time we had a shot you know?

"Yeah. I thought you guys did, too." Lip wasn't the kind of guy who said things just to be nice. Whatever he had thought about the ridiculousness that had transpired in the lead-up to the wedding, he had been a believer after that day in the polka hall. Or, at least, he had wanted to believe that it could work. 

"Uh, for what it's worth, and everything. I don't think he was unhappy with your life." Lip shrugged a little. "Me and him don't exactly have heart-to-hearts but Mickey doesn't exactly have an incredible emotional range. It wasn't hard to tell that he really wanted to be married to you. You're obviously the best thing that ever happened to him and it's not close. Just, you know. From where I'm sitting."

"I thought he was happy, but... I don't know, man. Looking at it through his eyes now..." Ian shrugged. Mickey had woken up to a shitty bedroom in a shitty house shared by too many people, and a husband who was actually, literally, clinically batshit crazy. No wonder he'd been underwhelmed. 

"He said tonight that he had to start, like. Putting his life together. That it would just be 'a bonus' now, if his memory came back. A bonus. I'm gonna lose him, Lip. Maybe I already have." 

He heard his voice catch, felt his throat tighten, and he forced down what was left of the sandwich, more because he knew he had to than because he wanted to.

Lip considered that for a long moment. 

"I guess it's kinda hard to just wait. To have your life on hold and not know if everything is gonna come back. You gotta feel like you're moving forward. I get that. I know you do, too. Your shit is on hold as much as his. Probably wouldn't have said it the way he did, though. Mickey's not exactly a wordsmith."

He watched Ian for a second. "I don't know what the answer is. I'm glad you came here, though. I think you need a good night of sleep and some time to yourself." 

Ian huffed a laugh but it was humourless. 

"Yeah. Sleep and time to myself will fix everything."

These were the moments when the pull to go off of his meds was the strongest, when he hurt so fucking much that he felt like he could barely breathe. When a manic phase hit - a real one, not a mild one tempered by meds - everything felt _good_. Even when things were going wrong, it was okay because there were still ways to be happy. And even though he knew now that it was a false happiness, in the moment it felt the opposite, felt real and vibrant and full of energy. 

"What the fuck am I gonna do, Lip? Like... don't give me shit about one day at a time or figuring things out. I mean it. What the fuck am I gonna do when he goes?"

"You think I've got all the answers?" Lip asked. "Last week I felt good, but the week before I went to a meeting almost every day. I needed to. If I were to say 'one day at a time', it wouldn't be trite fucking bullshit, okay? Neither is 'do the next right thing'. Or even 'accept the things you can't change'. They're the only things that work. That shit saved my life."

He leaned back a little, not wanting to come off like he was giving Ian shit - even though he was, a little.

"You just gotta try and make the best choices that you can make. There's no secret. It's gonna be really fucking hard. I know that's not what you wanna hear. All I can say is that you're gonna have us if you need us."

"Real fuckin' helpful, man," Ian said sourly. That bullshit might work when you were trying not to pick up a beer but they sure as fuck weren't going to do shit to help someone whose husband had disappeared overnight, only he was still walking around and living in the same neighborhood and working at the local mall where you could run into him and his new life. It was a thousand times worse than a regular break-up and 'make good choices' could fuck off. All that _that_ meant was 'don't go off your meds because the rest of us have enough shit to deal with without worrying about your crazy ass on top of it'.

He wanted to punch Lip, to trash the whole place, but he didn't even have the energy for one fucking right cross right now. He didn't want to be there anymore but he sure as fuck couldn't go home. 

"I'm just gonna go to bed. And in case you didn't actually see it, yes, I took my meds."

"Great. Good for you." Lip wasn't necessarily being sarcastic, since he wasn't about to let Ian goad him into a fight right now. He was proud of Ian for sticking with his meds for as long as he had, but he also knew better than to try and tell him what to do in any capacity. He wasn't Fiona, and he had enough shit on his plate without trying to micromanage Ian's life on top of it. 

"I have to go into the shop in the morning. If you're not up by the time I leave, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge." He paused. "I'm sorry you're going through all this, man. It's fucked up." 

Ian just nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone was waiting for poor Ian to get to the end of his rope and now we're here. The burn is so slow as I read this back, dear lord. I hope everyone likes to suffer as much as me. One up side of all of this, though? Normally either one could teach a master class in avoidance tactics when it comes to communicating about the tough shit, but now they have no choice but to talk about their past. Let me know if you agree in the comments; I lurk quite a bit on Tumblr and I know some of y'all have participated in some super fascinating gallavich discourse.


	7. Nobody Else Will Ever Know What You're Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Let me in or let me go  
> I swear, out there  
> Nobody else will ever know what you're thinking."  
>  \--"Laughing Gas", The Fratellis
> 
> Particular CW for this chapter, the events of 3x06 are mentioned.

Mickey woke up the next morning and had no interest in calling Svetlana. He had said that in anger the night before, he told himself. It wouldn't do anything but open a can of worms. Did he really want to carry on going down that particular rabbit hole? Much as he wanted the truth, he also didn't really trust his emotional capacity to properly process it, especially since his emotions had felt so close to the surface since the accident.

Ian hadn't come back, he discovered when he came down for breakfast, and while he initially thought, somewhat sourly, _great_ , Mickey didn't know of anywhere to go or anything to do. He thought about calling Ian, but didn't know what he would say. 

It was nearly lunchtime before he gave up on watching Top Gear reruns and opened the contact list in his phone. Scrolling down to Ian's number, he looked at it for a long moment before scrolling past it to the number without a contact name, and dialed. 

The phone rang almost long enough for the voice mail to kick in as if the person on the receiving end of the call had been debating whether or not to answer. Or maybe she simply didn't have her phone handy. Either way, when the call was accepted the voice on the other end was a mixture of disinterested and offended to be bothered. 

"Ah, useless ex-husband from non-legal marriage and deadbeat baby daddy. I thought perhaps you were dead." 

She sounded as if that would not have been a surprise in the least. 

Mickey wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but when he heard that voice coming down the line, his grip tightened slightly on his phone. It was familiar in a way he couldn't quite quantify, even if it didn't draw forth any specific memories. 

"Yeah, well. Almost." 

He didn't really want to get into the weeds talking about the cartel, so he simplified the story a little.

"I was in a car crash. I don't remember much about... almost anything for the last ten years. Ian told me that the kid I keep getting pictures of is ours." 

There was a long pause, Mickey's words being carefully considered by someone who knew well how to discern truth from lies. 

"You are serious?" Svetlana finally asked. "Perhaps you have forgotten Yevgeny because you are terrible father.” 

There was an almost cautious edge to her voice; the comment was less about actually attacking him as a father and more about trying to get a rise out of Mickey to see if he was telling the truth. 

"Well, I'm probably not winning any medals," Mickey said, finding it easy to settle into a sarcastic tone with this stranger, as though he'd done it many times before. "But I did total my car and fuck up my head. I can't remember shit."

It occurred to him that he shouldn't really care if she believed him or not; it wasn't like he was trying for visitation. Still: "Kid doesn't even look like me. Ian was trying to convince me it was my cousin."

"He looks like you." Svetlana's reply came quick, hard. But then she relented though the shift in tone was so slight it could be easy to miss. "You do not like to see it. It brings back the bad memories. Fathers have many luxuries mothers do not, they can choose not to see things. Or maybe mothers are stronger with separating emotions and not blaming children." 

Her voice muffled momentarily as she spoke to someone and covered the phone. Then she was back. 

"You will not die, then? You will live? Your memory will return?"

"I don't know. I've remembered a few things, but not a lot. Starting to think I have to assume it's not coming back and figure my shit out accordingly."

Mickey scratched the back of his head, and then remembered the thing that she had said that he had wanted to circle back to.

"What did you mean by bad memories?"

Svetlana made a soft, "hm"-ing sound that could have been surprise. Or boredom. 

"Carrot boy tells you that you have son but not how you got him?

"Yeah, well carrot boy doesn't tell me very much," Mickey said irritably. "I figured it was something fucked up, because everything he tells me is fucked up."

"There are many things he would prefer you do not remember, I am sure." 

Mickey glanced around, making sure that there weren't Gallaghers around, listening in. Then, scowling at himself for caring, he asked: "Can you tell me?"

Again, Svetlana’s voice became muffled momentarily and another, younger voice could be heard. 

"You call at lunchtime," she said, returning to Mickey, accusing as if he somehow should have known it wasn't a convenient time.

Mickey waited.

"I was whore," she told him with no trace of shame or apology. "Your father had gun, made me fuck you in front of ginger boy after he caught him fucking you on couch, after he beat you both. He said I had to do it until you liked it. I remember thinking you were ugly and bloody but you did not smell so it was better than fucking your father, at least." 

Mickey was silent for a long moment. He truly did not know what to say. The scene she had described - in such conversational tones, as though she described a trip to the grocery store - was so ugly that it was hard to credit. The worst part – the _worst part_ – was the sudden and complete belief that it was true, because it sounded very much like something his dad would do.

He understood now why Ian had been so careful to say that he didn't blame him for what had happened. 

"Fuck me," he said, finally. "You really know how to tell that story, huh.”

He had certainly underestimated that one.

"Is there a good way to tell story like that?" she asked.

The sound of the boy's voice could be heard again in the background; Svetlana had walked away to tell Mickey what had happened then returned to finish getting him lunch. 

"I thought you were gonna say that I cheated on him,” Mickey told her. “Sounds like you dodged a fuckin' bullet when you had my kid and not Terry's. Congratulations."

"No, you did not cheat. He did enough of that for you both. You were more... puppy dog, always chasing him. He say jump, you say how high. He say leave your pregnant wife, you pack your shit and go. He take Yevgeny and run away because he is crazy in head, you go and get him and keep letting him see baby." 

"Yeah, well, sounds like we could've foretold that I was gonna be a shitty husband since I had a boyfriend when we met, which, oh yeah, we did through my dad making us fuck at gunpoint."

Mickey leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged a hand over his face.

"You were not always shitty husband,” Svetlana allowed. “You tried to provide for me and baby. You tried to get me and the other girls treated less like trash." 

And then something caught up with Mickey. 

"Wait, what? Ian ran off with the baby?"

Svetlana sighed, like Mickey's question was an inconvenience even though she had brought it up. 

"He stole Yevgeny. When he was batshit. He was not sleeping, he was doing cocaine every night at work and fucking old men, and losing his mind. But you would not admit he was crazy. Until he stole my baby and your car and ran away. No diapers, no food, no phone calls. He will never be alone with Yevgeny again." 

"Jesus Christ, Ian." Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he said quietly, "I didn't know he could get that nuts. I've only seen him - I only _remember_ him on medication."

"He was... good with Yevgeny. When his head was less crazy. But less crazy is still crazy and I will never trust him with my child alone again." 

There was a firmness to Svetlana's voice, as if maybe in the past Mickey had tried to sway her on that. 

He thought about what she had said. "That's gotta be why I didn't tell him that I was still in touch with you. Is that the kind of guy I am, the spare-someone's-feelings guy?" He sounded skeptical. 

"No, you are not," she replied. "Except when it comes to I Love Lucy. With him, you are soft. Too soft. I have to get Yevgeny his lunch. Do you still wish to see pictures of the son you do not remember?" 

Mickey hesitated for only a second. "Yeah," he said. 

Either he would get his memory back and he'd want those pictures, or he wouldn't, and they would be the only connection he had to his son. He already knew that he wasn't cut out to be a real father to this kid he didn't know, but he couldn't help giving a little bit of a shit. Maybe Ian's influence; who knew? 

"Do you ever call me? For anything? Or is it me who calls you?" 

"I call you to tell you about Yevgeny. I don't ask you for things, we don't need things. And my husband is good father. Well. He provides. But Yevgeny should know you, even a little. You were forced to marry me but you were not forced to try to take care of us like you did. I will not forget Ian is batshit but I will also not forget this." 

There was a long pause then Svetlana inhaled slowly. 

"You are not dead. This is good thing. For Yevgeny. Maybe you will remember, maybe you will not. But you are not dead." 

"Yeah," Mickey agreed. He didn't know why, but something inside him unclenched just a little, hearing her say that. "I'm not dead."

Impulsively, he added, "You can, uh. Call me, next time. So that I don't get you during lunch. Tell the kid not to get into too much trouble. We got a family history of bad decisions."

"Yes. You do." 

There was a slight up-lilt in Svet's voice; she was teasing. 

"I will call you sometime, you may speak with Yevgeny then if you want. Goodbye, shitty ex-husband." The same hint of a smile returned for that, as well.

"Yeah, yeah. Bye."

Mickey ended the call and sat with his phone clasped between his hands for a long few seconds, before he became aware that someone was in the room with him.

Turning, he saw Debbie, who was not going a great job of hiding.

"Hey. Were you listening to my phone call? What the fuck?"

Debbie didn't even bother to apologize. Mickey had been talking about some pretty deep shit with someone who definitely hadn't been Ian. 

"Who was that?" she asked. "And why were they telling you Ian's business?" 

"Ian's business? Isn't it my business if someone runs off with my fuckin' kid?" Mickey wasn't in the mood for this. "Ian knows who I called. I told him I was going to. Notice he's not here to object."

"Fine. Yours and Ian's business. So doesn't that mean you should be talking to him about it? And maybe he isn't here because he knew you'd be talking about shit he isn't ready to discuss with you."

The look in Debbie's eyes didn't quite back up the vehemence in her voice. But while Mickey might be family now, Ian had been family always which meant he got her loyalty first. 

"You gonna go talk to him about it now, at least? He's at Lip's."

Mickey had the grace to look a little ashamed, but he stood his ground. These were things that he already knew - just because he'd forgotten them didn't mean that his right to know them had suddenly been revoked.

"If there's shit Ian doesn't wanna tell me, that's his problem. I'm not going over there. I'm tired of fighting with him. If you wanna run and tattle, be my guest."

"Wow," Debbie said in the dry and sarcastic and unimpressed way she'd perfected by age eleven. "If a man who watched his husband almost die, who has now been completely erased from said husband's memory, and has taken sole responsibility for making sure that same husband gets better has some bad memories he isn't ready to share yet that's _his_ problem? That's cold, even for a Milkovich." 

"Is it? You're telling me that if you hit your head and nearly cashed in your chips, and someone didn't tell you about Franny because they were worried it would change how you felt about them - you'd be all good with that?"

"I've raised Franny," Debbie pointed out. "Myself. She's right here, she would be impossible to keep from me. You're upset, okay, I get that. You have a right to be. But he's doing the best he can. You think you'd do better? You think Ian should just magically know how to do this perfectly? Maybe he needs to tell you more. And maybe you need to cut him some slack." 

Mickey stood up, stuffing his phone into his pocket. "Look, save whatever sermon you got locked and loaded. I know where I stand in this house and nobody's about to take my side over Ian's."

Debbie raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah. Except for Ian." 

"Nah, see. Ian's waiting to see if he gets his husband back. He doesn't want anything to do with starting all over again. Can you blame him? It was a trainwreck. It's a goddamn miracle that we got this far."

He shook his head.

"I can't sit around, spinning my tires. I told him that. So he can get on board with me trying to figure my shit out with no memories of us, or he can sit at Lip's being pissed off about it." 

" _Oh,_ I see. So, in Mickey Land, ten days or so is _more_ than enough time to process the fact that your husband has completely blanked on your whole relationship, deal with that in a totally healthy way, _and_ be ready to start a whole _new_ relationship? Do you hear yourself? And if you think for one second that Ian wouldn't start over again with you, if you think he's at Lip's because he's _pissed,_ then you need to get your ass over there and actually invest in getting to know him better. Because that is exactly what he'd do if it meant he didn't lose you. But Jesus, Mickey. Give him a damn minute to get there. Yeah, it's a miracle you made it this far and beat the shitty South Side odds. Maybe you should stop looking at that like it's a bad thing."

Debbie barely paused to catch her breath (Mickey was getting her speech whether he wanted it or not).

"Yeah, I'm on Ian's side. But the thing is, nine times out of ten, his side is your side, too. And I think that's how it is now. You two dumbasses just haven't realized that yet."

"Aren’t you supposed to be in jail?" Mickey demanded. His annoyance had a tired note in it, like he had reached his argument quota for the week and was just going through the motions. 

Debbie flipped him off.

"Jesus, Debbie.” Mickey rubbed at the place where his headache felt like it was trying to push through his skin, without really realizing that he was doing it. “I'm not trying to be impatient with Ian, but it's hard to go one day or a week without knowing who the fuck you are. If I gotta keep doing this for months or years, then I gotta start with the starting over. Ian can be part of that if he wants and if it turns out that way. But he has to be fucking honest with me about shit. And I can’t promise that shit is gonna work out. I don’t know that yet.”

"No, you don’t," Debbie replied with a shrug of one shoulder. But her tone had changed as well. "Look - I stand by what I said, that you need to _talk_ to him. Because I can guarantee that Ian doesn't think he's included in any plans you have to start over and _that's_ why he's dragging his feet so much. But... you're right. You need someone on your side. So, you know what? Count me in on Team Mickey. Probably Sandy, too. I'll even make us t-shirts with your face on them. How's that?" 

It wasn't really about signs and teams, and she knew that. But right now Mickey didn't really have _anyone_ looking out for his best interests. Shit, had he even really had anyone to _talk_ to about this? Mandy, long-distance? 

"You know, I think I got so used to you two being IanAndMickey that I almost forgot that you're Ian - and - Mickey." She gestured with her hands to show the separation. "And after everything you've done for Ian, you're family. For-real family. So it's not just you facing the Gallaghers anymore, okay?"

Mickey looked at her for a long few seconds, completely thrown off by the way the conversation had changed track. It was like the part of his brain that was responsible for conversation thought that they were still arguing, because when he spoke aloud, he wasn't really able to modulate the abruptness:

"Yeah. Okay. Whatever."

There was a strange little tug under his heart, but he did the emotional equivalent of looking in the other direction.

"Look, I don't - I was talking to Svetlana. My kid's mom. She said that Ian took the baby. Is that how he gets? Just goes nuts?" 

Debbie looked almost ready to smile, but then her eyes widened. 

"Svetlana? You were talking to Svetlana?" 

She was so surprised she forgot she'd been feeling kind of smug about almost making Mickey show some emotion. She motioned for Mickey to follow her into the kitchen where she started gathering things to make lunch for Franny. 

"When Ian took Yevgeny..." She had to search for how to explain it. Mickey hadn't understood bipolar before but he was _seeing_ it, which made it easier to teach him about it. But now, it would be like learning from scratch. "If he's not on his meds, it can get pretty bad. Especially if the rest of his life isn't consistent. When he took Yev, he wasn't taking care of himself and he was denying he was sick and that he needed meds. The last time our mom got that manic she slit her wrists - well, right here, in front of the sink. On Thanksgiving." 

She'd made a ham and cheese sandwich that she started to put on a chipped plastic Princess Anna plate but then handed it to Mickey on a napkin instead. 

"When he's on his meds and taking care of himself, he still gets - they call them 'episodes'." She made air quotes before starting another sandwich. "Manic episodes, depressive. He still has those, but they're not as bad. The worst highs are like... think of when you had the most adrenaline ever and times it by about a hundred. He gets kind of over the top, doesn't make great choices. And the lows, instead of being in bed for days and not moving or eating or changing clothes, he might be in bed a day or two and sleep a lot, but he's usually pretty functional to at least, like, eat or go to the bathroom. But that's as bad as it gets, pretty much, when he's on meds. He's not out stealing babies or thinking he's Jesus." 

She looked up from cutting Franny's sandwich in half. 

"Probably shouldn't have said that. He didn't _really_ think he was Jesus." 

Mickey absorbed all of that as best he could, but it was a lot. He had never been around mental illness before, or realized that there were people who had to take daily medication for it. He had sort of assumed that if you were that sick, you would go to a hospital somewhere, and maybe they would fix you. Or if they couldn't, you would stay there. 

He didn't voice any of that aloud, but as he stood there holding the sandwich in his hand, he suddenly felt compelled to ask: 

"She slit her wrists? Is that... something that could happen to Ian?"

"Maybe." 

It maybe wasn't the answer Mickey would most like to hear, but Debbie gave it anyway. 

"He's never done anything like that. And mom was a lot older and had never really stayed on meds in her life. So her swings were extreme. But Ian can be a little self-destructive in other ways, just, like, has poor judgment, not a lot of impulse control. But, like I said, on his meds it's a lot better. And he's been on them for a while now, and working really hard to stay healthy. And we all know the warning signs, too, so that helps. If you ask him, I know he'd tell you what they are and how to handle them. You're actually the best at it - or you _were,_ I guess, which means you could probably learn again. You want something to drink?" 

"What? No. No, I'm gonna, uh. Gonna go see Ian." 

Realizing he was still holding the sandwich, Mickey awkwardly looked around for somewhere to put it. Something occurred to him, and he grabbed a freezer bag from the cupboard full of assorted ziplocs of various sizes and vintages. Putting the sandwich inside, he sealed the bag and then hesitated.

"Uh, I'm just gonna take this with me. Thanks."

Debbie looked up from where she was pouring milk into a cup for Franny. 

"Just make sure he knows that you starting over doesn't have to mean leaving him behind. I think that'll make a difference. And, you know, I literally _just_ got used to having you around - " She rolled her eyes as if it had been a great inconvenience. " - so don't leave the rest of us behind either, okay? Here. You need more than just a sandwich." 

From a large bag on top of the fridge she pulled down a mini bag of Doritos, tossing them to Mickey before picking up Franny's lunch and setting it on the kitchen table, calling her down from upstairs. 

Mickey caught the Doritos against his chest and looked for a second as if that embarrassing strange warmth was back again, but all he said was, "See ya." 

\--

By the time he showed up at Lip's, he was already second-guessing what was just the latest in a lifetime of rash decisions. Still, at least he had food, he told himself, if he needed an excuse to be there. Something told him Lip wouldn't be over the moon to see him. Mickey didn't give a shit about his opinion but he could decide to be a gatekeeper to Ian if he wanted.

At the top of the stairs, Mickey glanced around and then knocked.

When Lip answered the door, he had Freddie sound asleep on his shoulder and a surprised look on his face. 

"Mickey. Hey."

It took a second but then he blinked and stepped back, out of the doorway, motioning for Mickey to come in. 

"You, uh. Here to see Ian?"

"Well, I'm not here to see you." It was without heat. Mickey stepped into the house, glancing at Freddie.

"Cute kid. Must take after his mom." 

"He does.” Lip closed the door, careful not to wake the sleeping child. “Lucky him, huh? Still got the shitty Gallagher genes, though, probably have his nose broken a time or two by the time he's twelve. That'll ugly him up." 

Mickey suddenly felt stupid just standing there and holding the sandwich bag, so he stuffed it into his coat pocket. He didn't quite meet Lip's eyes when he asked, "How is he?"

"You remember anything at all about this? The bipolar thing?" Lip asked, instead of directly answering Mickey's question. 

"No. Just that Ian didn't want to take his pills, and I wanted him to. Debbie told me a little bit, what it's like. The highs and lows and shit. And, uh."

Mickey rubbed at his nose with his thumb, and decided to leave Svetlana's name out of it.

"I heard about him taking my kid and fucking off somewhere."

"Oh, yeah? You also hear that it wasn't until shit got that bad that you would even admit he had a problem and needed help, even though the rest of us had been trying to get him to a doctor for months?"

Somehow, even though he was holding an small child in a 'handsome like dad' sleeper didn't make Lip look any less like he'd be down to kick Mickey's ass if he had to. 

Mickey looked startled by Lip's comment, but it quickly turned to a scowl. "No. No one told me that." 

_Because Ian doesn't tell me shit_ , he thought, his old annoyance flaring up again momentarily before he pushed it back down. There was a tinge of guilt there now. 

"Well, now you know. To answer your question, he's not great.” Lip glanced over his shoulder, as though Ian might overhear him. “Hasn't left bed except to go to the bathroom since he got here. But he ate some toast this morning and he took his meds, so. Could be worse."

"Can I see him? I, uh. Brought him a sandwich."

Lip shook his head, relenting. 

"I'll go see if he wants to see you. If he says yes, it's cool with me. But if he says no, I don't want to fight about it. Just hang here for a second." 

Lip headed further into the house, the sound of his footsteps taking the stairs carrying into the kitchen. A couple of minutes passed before he came back down. Mickey could admit to himself that he didn’t quite relax until Lip returned.

"Top of the steps, on the left,” Lip told him. “If you can get him to eat some of that sandwich, it would be good." 

Giving a quick nod in response, Mickey made his way upstairs as instructed and stopped in the doorway to the guest room. 

Ian looked like he was having a long, tough week. Seeing him like that stirred up a powerful feeling in Mickey that was completely familiar to him even though there was no specific, visual memory attached. It completely took over everything else in his mind and it made sense, without having to be explained. _He wanted to make Ian feel better._ That was it. He knew without being able to picture it that he'd been here before, wanting to hold Ian until life didn't feel quite so hard. Until he was sure Ian was safe. 

Instead, he said something that didn't feel adequate, but the new feeling had caught him too off-guard to do it better.

"I brought you a sandwich, and Deb tells me I'm the Ian whisperer, so. You're gonna have to eat it." 

Ian had spent every waking moment - which, admittedly, weren't many - hoping Mickey would call or text or come by. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see or talk to Mickey, but he wanted Mickey to at least reach out. And now that he had, Ian wasn't sure how to feel about it, mostly because he wasn't sure what Mickey was thinking. 

"Not really hungry," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Did you call her?" 

He was dreading the answer but he had to know. 

Mickey hesitated. _So we're getting into this right away._

"Yeah," he said, after a moment. Closing the door behind him, he came in and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"She thought I was just a shitty deadbeat who didn't want to call his kid. Didn't sound that surprised about it." He glanced over at Ian. "She did seem a little bit happy about the fact that I'm not dead. Although it's hard to tell with her. Everything comes out like she's a prison guard in the gulag." 

Ian watched Mickey's movements, blanket pulled up under his chin. He didn't move to make room for him on the bed but he also made no effort to make him move, either. 

"Yeah, she's..." He swallowed. "She cuts to the chase. How's Yev? He doing okay?" 

He wanted to ask more but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach made him not brave enough. 

"Yeah. I didn't talk to him, but I could hear him in the background." 

Mickey chose to look at the far wall instead of at Ian.

"She told me about when you disappeared with him. You were right. I must not have told you about keeping in touch because she's pretty fucking firm about you not being around him." He rubbed at his jaw. "The way she said it made me think that I've tried to change her mind on that before."

"I wouldn't know." Ian rolled onto his back; it was easier to turn his head to not look at Mickey that way. "I love Yev. I never wanted to hurt him." 

It sounded feeble, even to his own ears. He wanted to tell Mickey how good he'd been with Yev, how he never complained about changing diapers or having to do the grocery shopping with a baby while Mickey worked. But he couldn't quite work up the energy when he wasn't sure Mickey would even want to hear it.

"Of course you didn't want to hurt him. I might not feel like I know you that well, but I know that." 

Mickey still had that overwhelming sense memory of having been here with Ian before. He slid his hand along the blanket until he found where Ian's hand was under it, and put his own on top. It was better, he thought to himself, if he didn't overthink it. If he went with what he was feeling, maybe more memories, whole ones, would come back.

Ian went very still, a little afraid that it was an accident and if he moved at all it might alert Mickey to it and cause him to move away from the first willing touch he'd initiated.

"She, uh.” Mickey hesitated. “Also told me about where he came from."

Ian turned his head sharply back in Mickey's direction at his words. 

"She had no right to do that." 

Another jolt of adrenaline-panic went through him, though it seemed to be concentrated in the quickening of his heartbeat. 

"Why did she do that? It isn't - she had no right." 

"Hey, shh. I'm the one who asked her, so it's my fault. Calm down.”

Ian shook his head, looking sad. 

"Why would you do that?" he asked, but he didn't expect or even really want an answer. What difference did it make, now that Mickey knew. 

Mickey shrugged. “Honestly, I'm not... I guess I'm not surprised. Not really." 

He hadn't realized it was true until he said it out loud.

"If you'd asked me what I thought my dad would do if he ever found out about us, I wouldn't have said that him pistol-whipping me and making me fuck a Russian prostitute was completely out of the question. I actually thought it might be worse. We're still fuckin' breathing, so. Small miracles."

"Big miracles," Ian corrected. "Your dad tried to kill us more than once. Including our wedding day." 

He hadn't missed the way Mickey was speaking to him, the tone of his voice, hints of something he hadn't heard since before the accident. 

"You wanna...?"

He scooted over a little, sliding a pillow to where Mickey could lean against it, beside him.

Mickey didn't second-guess it; he leaned down to tug off his shoes and laid down next to Ian. 

"Here," he said, fishing the sandwich out of one pocket and the small bag of Doritos out of the other. He put them on the small table next to the bed. "You gotta eat some of that later, even if you're not hungry. It's Cool Ranch. You love that shit. Deal?" 

Ian stayed on his back but turned his head to look at Mickey. 

"Maybe in a few minutes," he said, wanting to just enjoy having Mickey close to him for a while. "I'm sorry about all of this. Me, I mean. Here, like this. I just... need a couple days to recharge. Hey, have I told you I like Cool Ranch? Or did you just notice?" 

Or remember?

"I don't know," Mickey admitted. "Can't tell if it's a new memory or an old one."

He didn't like that Ian felt the need to apologize to him, especially since Mickey had essentially left him to his own devices to deal with this on his own. 

"I did remember something else, though." He hesitated, though it was more to try and figure out how to explain it than anything else. "I can't picture it or whatever. But I remember the feeling, of you being sick and me just feeling like... I couldn't fix it so I just had to keep you going until you felt better."

Ian turned onto his side and readjusted the blanket which took a minute because he'd gotten tangled in it. Once he was settled, tucked in up to his chin again, he looked at Mickey. 

"You're a fixer. You remember that at all? You tried to take care of me but you couldn't fix me and that was hard for you. Especially since, for a long time, I wouldn't admit there was a problem. But lately..." 

From under the blanket he brushed his hand against Mickey's arm. 

"In jail and since we came home, you've been real good at keeping me going when the episodes hit." 

"Yeah, Lip told me all about how I wouldn't let them take you to a doctor until you took the kid." He sounded a little short. But when he spoke again, his voice had quieted. "I don't think I knew what it could really be like. I never knew anyone like that. Debbie explained it to me earlier and I figured out that you weren't, you know. Just hiding out over here." 

"I was sort of hiding. I wasn't sure you should see me like this. Not when all you have are bad memories." 

Mickey had been far less than impressed with their life together so far. Ian didn't think that knowing he'd married a headcase would endear him to the idea of staying hitched. 

Mickey tucked an arm behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

"She also told me that you thought I was gonna restart my life without you. You didn't think that, right?"

Ian wasn't quite sure how to answer Mickey's question. He was too tired, a little too muddy to be able to work out if it was some kind of trick question or had an obvious right or wrong answer. 

"Isn't that what starting over means? Taking your do-over?"

"No, it doesn't mean a do-over. It just means that I'm tired of waiting for my memories to come back. I want to feel like I'm moving the fuck forward." 

He turned his head a little, to look at Ian. "No more counting on everything coming back. We gotta just do new things for me to remember. And I want to start working again. I'm gonna do half-days starting next week. If you wanna stick around, that would be good for me. Nobody ever felt the way that you do about me. So I don't wanna have to go out looking. But if you're just gonna be walking on eggshells around me and not telling me shit, don't do me any favours."

Ian nodded, but even he wasn't sure what he was nodding at, if he was agreeing to anything or just acknowledging what Mickey had said. He wasn't looking at him anymore. 

"The doctors clear you for work?" 

"Not yet," Mickey conceded. He could tell that Ian was struggling with this conversation, but he didn't know if it was because he didn't like what Mickey was saying or if he was just not feeling well. Mickey certainly recognized what it was like to feel too groggy and messed up for a serious conversation. 

"But I have an appointment the day after tomorrow. If you're feeling better, maybe you wanna come. I don't know. Up to you." 

"Yeah. Yeah, I can come to that. Should be back on my feet by then." 

Ian hoped so, at least. 

"So, um. What does that mean? Starting over? Where - where do I fit in? Do you wanna be, like. Together?" 

Mickey nodded a little, still looking up at the ceiling. He had thought a lot about this, since his conversation with Debbie at the house.

"Yeah. I just don't want you to be disappointed. You know. If I never remember anything else. I don't want you to just stay with me because you're holding out hope and then you realize one day that I'm not who I was." 

Ian's eyes closed and when he exhaled, his breath was shaky. 

"I know who you are, Mick." His voice was a whisper. "With or without all of those memories, I know who you are. And I wanna be with you. Yeah, it's gonna suck if you never remember but... we can find new things for you to remember." 

Mickey didn't say anything for a long moment. It was less Ian's words and more the way his voice sounded that made Mickey's chest tight. He turned on his side slowly, facing him.

"Is there room for me under the covers?"

Ian raised his gaze to look at Mickey, his eyes a little red-rimmed and his expression very soft. 

"Yeah." 

Unwrapping himself, he pulled the blanket from around him, freeing enough of it for Mickey to get under it as well. 

"Missed you." 

He didn't specify if he meant sleeping beside him, or having Mickey close when feeling low, or if he just meant from the night before. Really, he thought as Mickey got under the blanket, it was all three. 

Mickey adjusted the covers, so that they were both snugly tucked in now the way Ian had been before. 

"How do you wanna do this? You usually... big or little?" He meant spoons of course, though he drew the line at saying anything that mortifying aloud.

"Big," Ian answered. "But little when I'm not feeling well. If you're okay with that." 

He was still working to keep his head above water, to do his best to not let this low point become a really low point. But the boulder that had been on his chest did feel like it was being slowly lifted. 

"Might need to sleep for a bit,” he added. “If you want to stay, I'll share that sandwich when I wake up."

"Come here." Mickey gently pulled Ian toward him, wrapping his arms around him. "Like this?"

Once again, the memory-that-wasn't of doing this with Ian to comfort him when he was sick became almost overpowering. Mickey gently pressed his nose into Ian's hair.

Ian settled back in against Mickey, holding his breath as long as he could, focused on the feeling of Mickey so close again. He found Mickey's hand and wrapped it up in his own. 

Every bit of him wanted Mickey's memories to come back but if they didn't, as long as Mickey still wanted to be with him they'd figure it out. 

"Yeah, this is perfect." 

"Sleep. Then, yeah, we're gonna eat that sandwich that Debbie tried to give me on a princess plate."

"Princess plate? You want me to find some just for you so you don't have to share with Franny?"

"I'll hit you with a princess plate," Mickey grumbled. "You know, Debbie's alright. Super annoying, but alright. Definitely better than Lip. Not that that's a real struggle." 

"Yeah, yeah," Ian said, his smile and contentment both audible in his voice. "Lip's just being a big brother." 

He could already feel sleep coming, their short conversation having used up what little energy he had. 

"I'm not really upset anymore that I didn't know about Svetlana. It's a good thing and I know now. We're moving forward, yeah?" 

"Yeah, yeah. We're moving forward. Get some rest, Gallagher."

This time, the name felt more like a nickname than something for Ian to get upset about.

Mickey didn't fall asleep for a while; he just laid there, a little too warm under the blankets, with Ian's weight against his chest, knowing that he had done all of this before. It was nice to be sure of something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the comments, I don't know that I've posted a fic this controversial since I killed off members of One Direction (Louis twice and Liam twice, if anyone's counting). I know we're making them suffer but it's not forever! I promise!


	8. Give You My Best Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not saying that I'm perfect  
> Oh, God knows I'm not  
> But I'll love you with everything I've got  
> I'll give you my best shot.  
>  \--"Best Shot", Jimmie Allen

Ian woke slowly, the light coming in from the windows by the bed bright in the room. It was early, he could tell, but even before he opened his eyes to check the clock, he was smiling. He was back in his own bed, having come home the night before after a second sleep at Lip's and a day of slowly returning energy. But even better than being in his own bed was the fact that he wasn't alone. Mickey was there, too, his back against Ian's chest, tucked snugly under Ian's arm. Their conversation at Lip's, Mickey's assurances that his starting over plans included Ian as well, had as much to do with Ian feeling better as did his meds and catching up on sleep.

He felt... optimistic. He could keep telling Mickey about the things he didn't remember and they could move forward together. They'd made a life and fallen in love once, they could do it again. He felt wide awake, for the first time in days with the energy to get things started, but he didn't want to leave the bed yet. Instead, he snuggled in closer against Mickey, not at all tempted to pretend that it was before the accident or that things were back to 'normal'. 

Mickey, who had always slept lightly before the crash and was starting to do so again, passed seamlessly and immediately from sleep to wakefulness when Ian snuggled in closer behind him. For once, he knew where he was and the familiarity of the contact didn't make him surge up with a start. He kept his eyes closed, but he became slowly aware of the sunlight pressing against his eyelids, and the warm weight of Ian's arm around him. 

"You sleep okay?" His voice came out rumbly and low. "I had a weird fuckin' dream about a cake topper." 

"Slept great," Ian replied, smiling at the sound of Mickey's voice. "Feel great, too." 

It hadn't been exactly the same as before, the last day or so, but Mickey had been attentive, doing his best to help Ian get back on his feet. And Ian couldn't help but think maybe that wave of depression had been a blessing in disguise. 

Even if he hadn't said as much, Mickey could tell just from the sound of Ian's voice that he was feeling better. Smiling, maybe, even. Mickey was glad to hear it. He knew that the past couple of days hadn't been as bad as it could get, but it had still thrown him off a little, seeing Ian like that.

"Cake topper, huh?” Ian asked. “What did it look like?"

"It looked like two dudes fucking. Well. It looked like us fucking. The little faces on it were pure nightmare fuel." 

Ian laughed softly, warm puffs of air on the back of Mickey's neck, and he pressed his nose into Mickey's hair for a second, still smiling. 

"That was ours, from our wedding," he told him. "Still got it, too. I didn't realize anyone had even looked at the faces. I don't think I really did."

"Wait, we really put that on top of a cake? Whose bright idea was that?" 

"I might have surprised you with it," Ian admitted, without so much of as a trace of regret. "And you loved it.”

"The faces are grinning these empty soulless Stepford Wife grins,” Mickey said. “Mine is like, 'dick in my ass? Don't mind if I do'." 

Ian rolled onto his back, stretching and grinning. 

"Is that what it looks like? Got you nailed, then. Pun intended." 

"All I’m saying is, no wonder Stepford Ian was fucking me from behind." Mickey rolled onto his back, too, feeling warm and comfortable. 

“I'm surprised you didn't recognize it,” Ian said. “Didn't you ever look at the album I brought you in the hospital?" 

"I looked at a page or two. But, I don't know. It's weird looking at pictures of yourself in a group of strangers. And I just wanted to fuckin' sleep all the time."

"We should look at it sometime," Ian said, rolling onto his side again and propping up on his elbow to look down at Mickey. "Together, I mean. Not to try and jog anything, just because it was a big day. You should at least see the pictures and let me tell you a little bit about it. You worked really hard on that wedding. You can tell me if you still think the flowers and chairs were the right choices."

"Still can't believe I planned the whole thing," Mickey said. "I guess it's not that much different from planning a scam or a gun run.”

"I can tell you this," Ian said as he sat up, tossing the blankets off of them both so that he could scoot to the edge of the bed. "You planned it the same way you'd plan a scam. You made the rules, you assigned the jobs, and god help anyone who messed up. The other groom included." 

He flashed Mickey a grin.

“Alright, come on." Mickey sat up and tapped Ian's chest. "Debbie got groceries yesterday. You up for cooking something?" 

"What, like breakfast? You want to surprise everyone?"

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like breakfast. That's what we eat in the morning. I know it's been a few days." 

He gave Ian a light knock in the shoulder, to let him know he was teasing, and got up, too. Collecting his clothes from yesterday from the floor, he gave his shirt the tried-and-true sniff test and pulled it over his head. Then, he made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. 

It was so early that no one was up yet when he got downstairs, so he went about getting eggs, bread, frozen hash browns, and tins of spam from various locations around the kitchen. 

In clean gym shorts and a tank, shaven for the first time in days, Ian headed down to the kitchen after his shower.

"You know what's good?" he said, putting a hand briefly on the small of Mickey's back as he maneuvered around him to pour himself a glass of juice. "Big old scramble. That’s what we should make. Eggs, cheese, chop up the meat of the gods, there. Franny fucking loves it." 

As he bent down to pull a pan from inside the oven he asked, "What about calling Lip? Seeing if they want to come, too? Up to you."

"That's all you," Mickey said, shaking his head slightly as he glanced at Ian. He was cracking eggs, business-like, into a large bowl. "If you want him here, you invite him." 

"I can text him," Ian said before venturing, "or, you know. You could. Might be a nice gesture. If you say no, I'll drop it." 

He wasn't trying to push but it would be nice, he thought, if Mickey and Lip could start bridging the gap a little. 

Mickey snorted, as if Ian were joking, but then he looked at him. "You're serious? You want us to make fuckin' friendship bracelets and skip through a fuckin' meadow? Look, I don't want him to fall out a window or anything but I don't have to invite him for breakfast. We're happy with our relationship the way it is."

Finally having located the cutting board beside some plates in a cupboard, Ian put it on the counter then held up both hands as if in surrender. He would like it if Mickey and Lip were on better terms but he'd meant what he said and didn't plan to push it. 

Mickey pushed the bowl of eggs toward Ian. "You're in charge of scrambling. Your milk is expired so we'll have to make do." 

"How expired?" Ian asked, opening up two cans of spam and looking around for the cutting board. "You taste it? Might still be good."

Mickey reached for the milk, which he had left out, and popped open the carton for Ian to smell it. "Pretty sure Obama was still in the White House when this milk came home from the grocery store." 

Ian didn't even need to get close to the milk carton to smell it and he made a face as he started cutting the spam into strips and then squares. 

"Okay, no milk then. Should be a block of cheddar in there somewhere. How are you with a grater?"

"A grater? I'll see if I can handle it." 

Mickey located the cheese after a good deal of rummaging in the fridge - the fact that it was jammed with leftover suppers and fresh food was a marked difference from the fridge at Mickey's house, which had a jar of pickles in it and a few cans of beer at any given time - and began grating it onto a plate. 

"So you're coming with me to the doctor today still?" 

"Yeah, absolutely. Even shaved for it." 

Spam chopped, Ian took his turn rooting around in the fridge until he found butter then started heating some (a lot) in the pan on the stove. 

"If it's still okay with you, I mean," he added as he started scrambling the raw eggs with a fork before pouring them into the pan and reaching for salt and pepper. "Your Tabasco is up in the cupboard, there, by the way." 

Mickey opened the cupboard that Ian had indicated and collected the hot sauce. The fact that he had probably been the last one to put it there, pre-accident, gave him pause for a second. He wondered if he would ever remember it.

Reaching for the frozen hash browns, he opened the package and set a second pan on the stove top. 

"Yeah. I think you should come. I wanna know about being cleared for work, but I also want to figure out this physio that I'm supposed to start doing for my arm. And I wanna ask her if she thinks there's anything I can do to get my brain right." 

"The wounds have healed up nicely," Ian said. "That should make her happy. I think she half expected us to drop the ball." He sounded proud if himself, since for the first week or so, he'd been the one taking care of Mickey's arm. "And, hey, I can help you with the physio. Might be rough, at first."

He added the spam to the eggs, using a spatula to keep scrambling it together. 

"You got the - oh, there we go." Spotting the plate of cheese, he added that as well. "Think we need toast if we've got hash browns?"

"Nah. If anyone wants some, they can make it themselves." 

Mickey started putting hash browns into the pan as the sound of light running footsteps broke the stillness above them. Franny was obviously awake. 

Ian turned to grin at Mickey. 

"What if I want toast?" he asked. "Will you make it for me?" 

"Don't push your luck," Mickey warned, brandishing a spatula at him.

Ian's grin grew wider. 

"I like extra butter and the grape jelly that's in the fridge door." 

"Good for you," Mickey said, even as he grabbed the bread and dropped two slices in the toaster. "You know that question you hate me asking? I'm not gonna ask, but. I have the feeling it's about to get noisy and busy in here." 

He turned the heat down a little under the pan, covering it for a just a minute. 

"Yeah, I know," Ian said. "Just waiting until we're almost ready to eat. I don't want to risk getting sick before your appointment." 

He pulled out some plates and took them to the table, putting Franny's seat by Mickey's, then returned to the eggs. 

"Any mushrooms in the fridge to add to the hash browns? Didn't even think about chopping an onion, though Fran won't touch them."

"Nah, no mushrooms. You gotta be the one who does the shopping next time."

As he spoke, Franny came bounding down the stairs with Debbie trailing after, yawning. 

"Who's got something to say about my shopping?" Debbie asked.

"Not me," Mickey lied. "I don't talk shit about chores I don't wanna do."

Franny ran right up to Ian and pulled on his pant leg.

"What's that?" 

Ian quickly scooped his niece up so that she could see the stove. 

"Your favorite breakfast. With extra cheese that Uncle Mickey did just for you. You want some juice? Oh, shit, forgot to put on coffee. I'll do that right now." 

As he put Franny down, he caught Debbie giving him the side-eye. 

"I'm not manic, Deb. Just happy." 

He turned off the stove top, then picked up his meds where both Debbie and Mickey could see, shaking out pills of out each bottle and washing them down with juice. Then he carried the pan and a spatula to the table to start filling plates, pretending to skip Franny's until she protested. 

Mickey brought over the hash browns, distributing them in Ian's wake. When Franny asked where her juice was, Mickey went over and grabbed it from the fridge at the same time as he retrieved Ian's grape jelly. When it was ready, he handed Ian his toast on a small plate - with a raising of his eyebrows, as if to say, _here's your toast and you better like it_ \- and brought Franny over a glass of juice in a cup that matched her princess plate. 

"You sit by me, Mickey," she informed him gravely. "Okay?" 

"Just let me get a coffee," he told her, and didn't look at Ian, who had a tendency to give him soft looks whenever he interacted with a child and didn't behave like an asshole. 

When he was sitting, Franny craned over him to look at his arm.

"Is your arm better yet?"

"It's fine," Mickey said. "Eat your breakfast, it's gonna get cold."

"Do you need a bandaid?" She asked. "I have blue Paw Patrol ones." 

"Well, maybe," Mickey relented. "But not until after breakfast."

Ian exchanged a look with his sister, noticing that her face reflected the same lessening of tension that he felt. 

"Mickey would love a Paw Patrol band-aid," he told Franny. "Or even a princess one, if you have them. He goes to see his doctor today and she needs to see what good care we've been taking of him." 

He was three bites in before Carl showed, bleary-eyed and no doubt only lured out of bed by the smell of food. Ian kicked out his chair for him but when he tried to take a slice of Ian's toast, Ian pulled the plate out of reach. 

"No way, man. You gotta make your own. Mickey made that for me." 

"Mickey can't have a princess bandaid," Franny told Ian after swallowing a huge mouthful of scramble, as though he were foolish for even suggesting it. "He's a _boy_."

"Boys can like princesses," Debbie said.

"I don't think Mickey likes princesses," Franny said. 

"You never know," Debbie said, hiding a grin at the way Mickey looked completely at a loss for how to respond.

"He has _tattoos_. One of them is a bad word."

"Well, why don't you ask him?" Debbie said.

"Mickey, do you like princesses?" 

Carl, despite making a face at Ian not giving him any toast, grinned. "Yeah, Mickey. Do you like princesses?"

Mickey discreetly flipped Carl off. "Uh. I don't know any princesses. Unless Ian counts."

Both Debbie and Carl turned to Ian, making the elaborate, _"Ohhhhhhhh!"_ s that usually followed someone getting burned. Meanwhile, Ian had both eyebrows raised but was laughing. 

"Is that how this is gonna be, then?" he said. "Really?" 

Franny just looked confused. 

"Uncle Ian is a princess?" 

"Damn straight, Franny-bo-bannie," Ian said to her. "I'm Beauty and Mickey's my Beast." 

Liam, who came into the kitchen right at the tail end of what Ian was saying, made a face as he grabbed a plate. "I don't wanna know."

The rest of the meal was kind of nice, Mickey thought. Debbie, Carl, Liam, and Ian chattered away and Mickey didn't feel obligated to participate, though he did sometimes. And, alright, so he wasn't a natural with little kids like Ian was, but Franny didn't seem to mind much. She pestered him with questions and spilled orange juice on him at one point, but Mickey supposed he could live with that. 

At the end of the meal, Debbie stopped Carl in his tracks with a wallop in the arm. "I shopped, Ian cooked, you clean up. That's how it works. Liam can help."

"Yes, _Fiona_ ," Carl muttered, but did as he was told. Liam didn't argue, starting to stack empty plates. 

Mickey looked across at Ian. "What do you wanna do until my appointment?"

"Dunno," Ian said leaning back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Could go for a walk? Or find something to watch on TV. Go uptown and scare some rich assholes with your knuckle tats." 

Mickey mulled those options. "Dunno. I kind of wanna shoot something. You wanna go somewhere and shoot something?"

When he was young, he used to go with Iggy and Colin to shoot bottles in an abandoned building nearby. He didn't know if it was still there, or if Ian would be into that, or even if he still owned a gun, although if Terry had tried to kill them as many times as Ian had said, he couldn't imagine that he didn't have one in the house.

"Yeah, sure. Been a while since we did that. I can take you where we used to go." 

Ian pushed his chair back and stood up. 

"Guns are upstairs in the bedroom closet. Um, Liam and Carl's room. Your shotgun is there, should be a couple boxes of shells. Pretty sure you have a pistol, too. Grab whatever you want. I gotta get some real clothes on." 

"Got it."

Mickey was waylaid briefly by Franny, who hadn't forgotten the bandaid - he ended up with one that featured some kind of red-headed princess with a bow and arrow, and Franny told him solemnly that she had picked the red-headed one because maybe that was the princess that Uncle Ian might be - before he made his way upstairs. When he closed the closet door, guns in the crook of his arm, he almost jumped when he saw Liam standing there.

"Did you remember everything yet?" 

"Not yet," Mickey said. He wasn't sure that he had ever had a real conversation with Liam, aside from the one about bullet holes - if that qualified. The last he remembered, the kid had been knee-high. 

"But you're gonna stay here? You and Ian?" He asked.

Mickey got it. "You angling for Fiona's room?"

Liam shrugged. "Just like to know my options."

"I don't know. Me and Ian were looking at apartments, but then a Mexican cartel tried to off me, so. Fuck knows when that'll end up happening. But I'm sticking around for now."

Liam nodded and stepped back to let Mickey pass him. 

In their bedroom - Ian was allowing himself to call it that again - he was pulling on a pair of sneakers after changing into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He grinned when Mickey came in with the guns. 

"Heard Liam grilling you. Could have stepped in. Didn't want to." 

He stood up after tying his laces and rolled his shoulders. 

"Poor kid doesn't know that, except for Franny, he is dead last in line for this room. And at the rate we Gallaghers are moving back in here or never leaving or bringing home spouses..." 

"I don't know," said Mickey. "He's gotta be smarter than Carl. It might not be that hard for him to scam his way in. You know, once it's empty."

He didn't want to go too far down the road of discussing their own place again. It hadn't gone very far the last time.

"Smarter than Carl isn't saying much," Ian quipped.

"You ready to go?" Mickey set the guns and ammo down on the dresser. "I'm gonna put on a coat." 

"My coat is downstairs, need to grab it. Oh, and, we'll need to keep a close eye on time because we'll have to leave enough to bring shit back here before the doctor." 

Ian stooped a little to check his hair in the little mirror on top of their dresser then picked up the shotgun. 

"I can carry this, that way your arm is still up to shooting it when we get there." 

Mickey finished tugging on his coat, watching Ian check his hair and pick up the gun. 

"Hey." He didn't know what it was, specifically, since he had been around guns all his life. But something about Ian holding one had sparked something. "Come here."

"Hm?" Ian said, glancing at Mickey just before heading into the hallway. "Hey, look, I wasn't trying to be the boss, okay?" 

He did step in closer, ready to hand the gun over. 

"You want to lug it along, that's cool with me, Mick." 

Mickey tugged Ian in closer by the hip, making as if he was just going to straighten the seams of his shirt. Then, without overthinking it, he curled his fingers into the fabric of the shirt and pulled Ian down for a kiss instead. 

Mickey didn't remember any of the times he had kissed Ian before, but that peculiar sense-memory stole over him again and he knew he had done it and how it had felt. 

Ian knew at the very last second that Mickey was going to kiss him, but he didn't have time at all to process that or prepare for it. And when he felt Mickey's mouth against his it was like a jolt to his system. 

He reached out, managed to prop the gun against the wall, then his hand was in Mickey's hair, cradling the back of his head as he kissed him back. 

Mickey recognized that too, the way Ian's whole hand could do that, span the back of his head. Their height difference didn't cross his mind that much, but the size of Ian's hands did. 

Mickey gradually loosened his hold on Ian's shirt and ended the kiss, looking up into Ian's face so that he could try to guess how he was feeling about this. Mickey couldn't imagine any other scenario but good, but at the same time, Ian was the one with a head full of memories. 

Just as he hadn't been ready for the kiss, Ian wasn't ready for it to end. He didn't move right away, lips still parted, breathing a little shallow. Then he shifted, both hands now on either side of Mickey's face. His lips came together as if he were about to say Mickey's name, but in the end he didn't speak at all. He simply leaned in, resting his forehead against Mickey's, eyes closed. 

Mickey closed his eyes, too, reaching up with both hands to gently curl his fingers around Ian's wrists. They stood that way for a moment, just breathing, until Mickey had to say something.

"You're still gonna come out shooting with me, right? You look... good, holding a gun."

"If you think that might happen again, I'll carry that thing with me everywhere I go." 

Ian pulled back far enough to look at Mickey, thumbs stroking over his cheeks. Then he forced himself to step away, not wanting to rush or push Mickey and knowing if he stayed that close much longer he wouldn't be able to help but to kiss him again. 

"Let's, uh, let's get going. Before the doctor tells you that recoil could be bad for you, even if your shooting arm isn't the one that's hurt."

"Like that'll stop me. Besides, all the good shit in life is dangerous. She probably also doesn't think we should drink, smoke, or have unprotected sex."

Before Ian could ask if he'd remembered that on his own, he clarified, "I've been through every one of these drawers. Buckets of lube, no condoms." 

"Why the fuck would we use condoms?" Ian said, picking up the rifle again and the shells. "I mean, we never have, but now we have no reason to. We're fucking married.”

“Yeah, but we have a long and storied history of not just fucking each other,” Mickey pointed out. "I don't give a fuck, but doctors _always_ comment on that shit."

Ian rolled his eyes at him. “And I wouldn't say we have _buckets_ of lube. You're such a drama queen." 

"Oh, I'm dramatic? There are _flavoured_ ones in there. I guarantee it's not me who likes the taste of artificial pina colada." 

He collected the other gun and tucked it into his pants, leading the way out of the room. 

"No, but the cherry-flavoured is all you," Ian said, following Mickey out and down the front stairs. He checked to make sure the living room was empty before setting down the gun, tugging on his jacket, and adding, "And if you saw the lube, you saw the beads. And those sure as fuck aren't for my ass. So, tell me, who's the _real_ princess needing the special attention and shit here?"

"Still you," Mickey said, not deigning to dignify the beads with a response. He showed Ian his princess bandaid. "See? Franny got you right on. She knows. Besides, it doesn't make me high-maintenance to know what I like."

"Tell yourself whatever you need to, Mick. But I wasn't the one having a public hissy fit over chairs."

\--

Ian took Mickey to the rooftop where they used to go when he would put in long hours of ROTC exercises while Mickey smoked and drank and shot his gun. He let Mickey do most of the shooting this time around as well, telling him stories about the afternoons they'd spent there together, pretty sure he found a way to do so that was a simple sharing of memories and not trying to force Mickey back into a past he didn't remember. 

It was cold, though, so by the time they had taken the guns home again and were en route to the doctor, he was glad to at least be on the bus, a break from the brisk winds. 

"How's the arm feeling? Merida still holding you together?"

"What? Who the fuck is - oh, is that Princess Ian's real name?" Mickey flexed his arm a little, and winced. "I feel like an old fuckin' man saying this, but it gets stiff in the cold." 

"You really have no room to talk," Ian said. "The only reason you don't know her name is because your memory is all fucked up. Believe me, 'Uncle Mickey', you know most of the princesses." 

He nudged Mickey's knee with his own, smirking. 

"Or _maybe_ I'm lying. You know, I didn't see the possible upside to all of this until now. And, in a total coincidence, I think it's time you know that every morning you used to wake me with a blow job, breakfast in bed, and constant compliments about how handsome I am. Should think about starting that up again."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Mickey said sarcastically. "Especially the constant stream of compliments; that seems in-character."

He looked out the window at the rows of houses flying by. "What do you think she's gonna say? About me going back to work?"

Ian noticed that Mickey wasn’t looking at him, and tried to keep his voice from sounding too doubtful. 

"I don’t know," he told him. "But sometimes your job gets physical, so if your arm isn't strong enough yet, if _you're_ not strong enough yet, it's better to wait then go back too soon and have a set-back, right?"

Mickey rubbed gingerly at his arm as Ian spoke. "I just want shit to do again. Much as I cherish and adore that godawful purple shirt, it's not really about work. I want to get out of the fucking house. No offense. And it's not exactly a great idea to do anything illegal while I'm on parole, so anything I used to do for money is out."

"Illegal is definitely out of the question," Ian agreed. "Look, if she says the security thing is out, we can find something else for you to do for a while. I know you need to get out of the house. And now that you're not exhausted or on the pain meds all the time, it's probably a good idea for you to get out." For just a second, he put his hand on Mickey's knee, giving it a squeeze. "We'll figure something out. Maybe you'll get lucky and she'll let you go back for restricted duty. It's about time those other jerks get off their asses and let you man the cameras for a while, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I guess we'll see. At least Larry hasn't been an asshole about me missing work so far." 

Despite his desire not to come off like he was preoccupied over this, Mickey's knee jiggled nervously for the rest of the bus ride.

When they arrived at the doctor's office, it wasn't a long wait before they were called in. The doctor glanced at Ian but didn't make any comment about him being there. She asked Mickey a series of questions, and then she paused as she made some notes.

"So, I wouldn't worry too much, but I do want to follow-up on the fact that you're still having trouble remembering," she told Mickey. "I'd like to send you for an MRI just to make sure that everything is healing okay, and I'd like you to see a neuropsychologist. They can suggest strategies and mechanisms that might help you recover faster. And, of course, you'll have to see a physiotherapist for your arm. I'll write you a referral and you can schedule those appointments on your way out."

"What about going back to work?" Mickey asked.

"Do you feel ready to go back?"

Mickey shrugged. "I could do, you know. Shorter shifts or something. Right? Just take it easy."

The doctor studied him for a second. "I don't want you to put too much stress on your brain while it's trying to heal."

"Trust me," Mickey said. "A chimp could do my job. Right, Ian?"

Ian had been doing his best to be a silent support for Mickey, watching him closely when the doctor suggested that he see a neuropsychologist. Even though it made perfect sense, Ian knew that Mickey didn't always have a super high opinion of those kinds of doctors, and he was already so touchy about his memory. He was still thinking about how to sell that treatment to Mickey later when the topic switched to Mickey's job and Ian wasn't really ready to be included in that discussion. 

"Um..." He looked from the doctor to Mickey and then back to the doctor again. Mickey had his loyalty, before anyone else. But that meant that maybe, if he was asked to be honest about what was best for Mickey, his husband wouldn't like his answer. "I don't really think that it would put much stress on his mind - er, brain. I don't think a _chimp_ could do it, but I think if Mickey has survived me asking him too many questions every day he can handle work." He paused, then added, "But, um... I'm worried about him being ready physically." He glanced at Mickey, mouthing, _'Sorry'._

"For fuck's sake, Gallagher," Mickey muttered under his breath.

"You think he's wrong?" The Doctor asked Mickey. She seemed interested by their dynamic.

"I'm not left-handed," Mickey pointed out. "I can do all my normal shit with my good arm. I promise I won't tackle anyone until you give me the go-ahead, how's that?" 

Ian sighed but he didn't argue with Mickey, knowing that doctor wasn't going to clear him for anything that she didn't really think he could do. Mostly now he was just hoping that he'd not pissed Mickey off enough to erase the closeness he'd felt with him over the last few days.

"You can't go back to tackling anyone for a long time," the Doctor said flatly. "But I think you could do modified duties at work, if you want to. I can write you a note for your employer, and your parole officer. I'll be very specific about what you can and can't do, and you'll have to keep up with your medical appointments or you may find that you start having difficulty." 

"Great," Mickey said. 

"I mean it," said the Doctor. "Every appointment. You'll make sure he goes, right?" That was directed at Ian.

Ian could have groaned when the doctor included him again. 

"Yeah, of course I will," he said, knowing that he'd do his best, at any rate. "I already told him I'd help him with the physio and stuff he has to do. I broke my leg not that long ago so I'm thinking I might be able to encourage him when it hurts, and all that." 

At least Mickey didn't remember that Ian had been a huge pain in the ass when he didn't want to do his therapy exercises and Mickey had had to get on him for it. Small favours. 

"Good," the Doctor said. When she looked back down at her notes, Mickey gave Ian a heavy dose of the eyebrows. 

As they left the doctor's office a few minutes later, after having made all of the appointments that Mickey needed, Mickey gave Ian a none-too-gentle punch in the arm.

"Hey. What was that, dickhead?"

Ian had been expecting it, but he still flinched a little when Mickey hit him. 

"What?" he said. "You wanted me to lie to her? I know you. If she didn't specifically tell you not to do dumb shit, you'd go back to work and do dumb shit. And I don't want you to hurt yourself worse. You almost died, Mick, I'm not gonna let you rush the recovery because you're impatient. I had your back in there and you know it." 

Mickey made a face at him that said that Ian might not be wrong, but Mickey didn't have to like it.

"So I guess you didn't rush recovering from your broken leg. Right?" 

"I _couldn't_ rush it, smart ass. I was in a big fucking boot and had to hop everywhere I went. In fact, the only time I did more than I should was when I had to tackle your ass on the lawn when you decided about three hours before our wedding to kill your dad." 

Ian gave Mickey a punch back - to his good shoulder- but there wasn't any real effort behind it. 

"Well, from the sounds of things, you probably should've helped me kill him, but sure." Mickey made a vague gesture. "We'll pretend that was a favour."

"Oh, right. Because you killing him and us having our wedding between the bars of the holding cell was exactly what we wanted. Terry's bound to get shanked in prison or die of clogged arteries any day now anyway." 

One of the very few less-than-painful things about Mickey's memory loss was that he hated Terry but didn't actively, murderously hate him. As far as Ian was concerned that was a good break for Mickey's mental well-being. 

"I've been hoping that Terry gets shanked in prison for years,” Mickey said darkly. “He'll outlive us all."

"I was just lazy when my leg was broken,” Ian said. “Didn't want to do the exercises and shit. But you kept on me, so I'll keep on you. How are you feeling now? You want to go home, rest up before dinner?" It was a nice way of asking if he needed his pain meds. 

Mickey put out his good arm out to flag the bus down as it came roaring up the street.

"Yeah, I wanna go home." Mickey glanced at Ian. "But not to do any resting."

Ian raised an eyebrow as he waited for the bus to stop and the doors to open. 

"Oh, yeah? What now? I doubt your arm is up to more shooting or taking down a meth lab for the cash."

Mickey climbed onto the bus and made his way to the back. 

"Guess you'll find out, Gallagher."

When they got home, Mickey led the way upstairs without stopping into the kitchen to say hello to any Gallaghers hanging around.

After hanging up his coat, Ian followed Mickey up the steps, giving a shrug to Debbie when she shot him a questioning look. Mickey not speaking wasn't weird in itself but Ian knew that the others - Debbie, at least - would have questions about how the appointment had gone. 

"Okay," he said, going into their room and sitting on the bed so he could untie his sneakers. "What do you want to do? Should I leave these on? You're not gonna ask me to go kill your dad, right?"

"Nope. One day I'll call you when it's already done and you can help me hide the body. Rather ask forgiveness than permission."

“You better be joking,” Ian told him.

Mickey shrugged out of his coat, kicked the door shut behind him, and came over to the bed to push Ian onto his back.

"Don't think this means I'm not still pissed at you for selling me out at the doctor's."

He climbed onto him and kissed him. 

It almost truly took the breath from Ian, Mickey, there, close. Kissing him. As smooth as a reflex, though, Ian was kissing him back. But he broke the kiss after only a second, looking about to say something, then instead flipping Mickey onto his back, mindful of his injured shoulder, and moving on top of him. 

"Didn't fucking sell you out, you cry-baby."

Mickey looked fleetingly surprised, but then he grinned. 

"Come down here and say that to my face."

Mickey felt the kind of breathless excitement that he hadn't experienced in a long time. None of the memories that had come back included sex with Ian, but Mickey didn't have to remember that to be attracted to him. 

"Fuck you," Ian said, grinning. But then he was kissing him again, one hand on the side of Mickey's face. As the seconds ticked by, his kisses got a little deeper, his weight shifting so that he was supporting most of it himself but so Mickey would also be aware of him there, the way they were touching from chest to hip to thigh. He tried to keep himself in check, had no idea what Mickey was expecting from this, but it felt _so good_ to have permission to kiss him again. 

Mickey fumbled for the hem of Ian's shirt, jerking it up when he found it and breaking the kiss just long enough to get it over Ian's head.

_Ian always wants his shirt off when we fuck, even if we're outside_ , he thought, and he wasn't even sure if that was true since he had no corresponding visual memories, but it _felt_ true. 

Just as natural as it had been to kiss Mickey back, as soon as his own shirt was off, Ian was pulling Mickey's off as well. After not allowing himself to even think about sex when he was close to Mickey, his entire body practically ached for him now. But when the kisses paused, he looked down at Mickey and hesitated for just a second. 

Maybe this wasn't the best idea. The thought went through his mind that if they did this, it would mean something different to each of them and could do more harm than good. 

Mickey could tell, in Ian's split-second hesitation, that he was wondering if they should do this. And Mickey wasn't going to talk him into it if he really didn't want to, because he could guess where Ian's objections lay. But, also, he wasn't about to be the voice of reason who talked himself out of getting laid, either.

And then Ian thought, _Fuck it,_ and kissed his way over Mickey's chest and stomach, getting his jeans open and tugging them down. 

Mickey wondered if Ian's mouth on his skin always felt this hot and electric, or if it was just because he hadn't had sex in so long. Lifting his hips, he helped Ian get his pants down as quickly as he could. 

There was a snag in the momentum as Ian had to wrestle with getting Mickey's shoes off - sharing a choice phrase or two - but once they were out of the way, Ian had Mickey's jeans and boxers off as well. He stood up long enough to get out of the rest of his clothes, then he was on the bed and leaning over him again, only this time he was at Mickey's hips, taking his cock first in his hand, then in his mouth. Mickey might not remember this, but Ian knew every inch of his body, exactly what he liked, and he planned to prove it.

Mickey's hips stuttered, and he made a sound that he barely recognized as originating from him. He did have blowjobs that he remembered, hazy ones, from years ago (and mostly from girls), but the second he felt the heat of Ian's mouth, he knew that they barely qualified. He had gotten off, sure, but he immediately recognized that not all orgasms were created equal. Curling his fingers into Ian's hair, Mickey wanted to be in contact with him everywhere he could.

Ian's fingers were shaking slightly where they were wrapped around Mickey, holding him so that he could work his mouth on him, and he closed his eyes as he finally pulled off, trying to keep his head from spinning. It was happening _so fast,_ both this and their closeness in general, having gone from Mickey allowing him to sleep in the same bed again to kissing him to this in less than a couple of days. But, runaway train or not, Ian knew that he didn't want to stop it even if he could. 

He kissed back up to Mickey's lips, on top of him again, hard against Mickey's leg. He didn't ask him if he was sure he was ready for this, not in words, but the question was on his eyes as he looked down him. 

Mickey's hand snaked down between them and he gave Ian's cock a few long strokes as they kissed. He just raised his eyebrows at Ian when the latter looked down at him.

"Stop trying to give me an out," he said. "You gonna grab the lube, or what? Pick something normal, I don't need my asshole smelling like a Christmas candle." 

Ian wasn't sure he had ever wanted Mickey as badly as he did in that moment, not even that first time when they were kids, and after just a few seconds of Mickey touching him, he was practically thrusting into his hand. 

_"Fuck you,"_ he got out, voice raspy, as he propped on one arm to reach over to the drawer of the bedside table with his other hand, already decided that whatever he grabbed first was what they were using, even if it smelled like pumpkin. Not that they had pumpkin-scented lube, he didn't think. 

"Unscented. Lucky for you." He flipped the lid open and looked at Mickey. "You don't have any memories of this. I mean, of getting fucked. You only remember being the top. With girls and, what? Jerks in juvie?" 

"You wanna talk about guys I fucked in juvie right now?" Mickey demanded. "Get your fuckin' dick wet." 

Ian was right, though. To Mickey's mind, this was his first time having sex with Ian - and, since he couldn't imagine having bottomed for anyone else (could barely figure out how he'd decided he could trust Ian with that), this might as well be his first time doing that, too.

He wondered if Ian was into that idea, or simply checking up on him yet again.

Ian squeezed some of the lube into his palm, leaning up as he smeared it onto his cock, absolutely wanting Mickey to watch him do it. Then he slicked his fingers, and kneed Mickey's legs open as he laid down on him again, hand slipping between his legs. More often than not, when they fucked, there wasn't much foreplay involved but he wasn't ready rush full steam ahead just yet. Mickey’s cock jerked when Ian pushed his fingers inside of him, and he wrapped a hand around himself almost involuntarily, needing some friction. 

Ian kissed Mickey again, then nipped at his bottom lip before kissing his way along his jaw, stopping near his ear. 

"You lose ten years of memory and mine is _still_ the only dick you want fucking you."

"Fuck off," Mickey muttered, even as Ian's voice made him shiver just slightly. "You even know how to use that thing?"

He wanted Ian inside of him so badly. That thread of want wasn't unfamiliar, but he felt a little like he was before the first drop on a rollercoaster - he had no idea what he was expecting.

"I don't know," Ian said, catching Mickey's earlobe between his teeth. "Maybe we should stop before you get to find out. You were pretty fucking concerned about not having any condoms." 

Ian was so hard he ached. And while before, if neither of them lasted long it just meant they got off and got a smoke sooner, he felt a bit more pride was at stake now, wanted to bring Mickey a little closer to the edge before fucking him over it.

"Couldn't be because you told me that we used to fuck around with strangers like it was our job," Mickey said. 

He turned his head to catch Ian's mouth in a kiss, fingers curving around the back of Ian's neck. He could feel how hard Ian was between them, and he rolled his hips, rubbing himself against him. 

Ian moaned softly, pulling his fingers from inside of him. He kissed him hard, pressing back down against him, using the friction created between them to take the edge off - even if just a little - how badly Ian wanted him. 

"This how we usually do it?” Mickey asked. “Face to face?"

"Sometimes we do it like this," Ian said, not mentioning that often he preferred it face to face, liked to watch Mickey; that might be too intimate for him now. "Probably most often it's, like, doggy or I'm behind you. You want to try it on your side? You get to choose." 

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah, on my side." 

Ian was right; Mickey needed just a fraction of a break from the intensity of what was happening between them. If he had to look into Ian's face, it would be too much like 'making love', and Mickey wasn't ready to imagine it that way. 

He turned over onto his right side, giving Ian room between him and the wall. 

Ian settled in behind him. He kissed the back of Mickey's neck as he traced his fingertips along the muscles in Mickey's back, every single one of which he knew by heart. Mickey not being able to see him anymore gave him the freedom to let a little more emotion in, and when his hand reached Mickey's hip, as he then began to guide himself inside of him, he pressed his lips to the soft skin behind Mickey's ear, sucking and kissing, knowing he was leaving a mark but not caring. 

There were a lot of things to focus on at once, and Mickey had to stop trying to focus on them individually - Ian's mouth behind his ear, his fingertips on his back, his cock - and simply let them all take up his attention at once. 

As much as Ian wanted to thrust into him, he took his time, gripping his hip and then, when he was completely inside of him, tucking his arm around him, finding Mickey's hand with his. 

Mickey took a breath and made himself relax. He spread his fingers to let Ian's tangle together with his. _Ian's done this before,_ he thought. _Ian's done this before with me._ It was at least a little bit reassuring. 

After a moment, he shifted his hips a little, experimentally, and decided he was ready. 

"Come on," he murmured. "Don't just fuckin' hold my hand."

Ian pulled out halfway, giving a few shallow, gentle thrusts, getting his hips aligned just right, settling in to what he knew, what Mickey's body would know, as familiar. And then, when Mickey had relaxed a little more, when he could move easily inside of him, he began to thrust harder. This was still Mickey, he told himself. Mickey not remembering their past didn't mean it hadn't happened, it didn't erase it, didn't change for a second that he was Ian's husband, that Ian loved him. Fucking had been their primary form of communication for a long time and there was something that felt sort of... right about returning to that now. Giving in, he pulled Mickey back against him, tighter, the speed of his hips quickening. 

Mickey's eyes were closed, that tiny frown of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. Some part of him registered that the only reason that they were anything close to quiet was because they had spent years honing that particular skill out of necessity. Mostly, he felt everywhere that Ian was touching him acutely, Ian's weight against his back, the way he was holding his hand so tightly that his fingers cramped. 

And the fact that it felt incredible. 

Ian knew that he didn't have to be gentle with him, knew how to angle and time his thrusts the way that Mickey liked without him having to say a single word. It was like nothing else he had ever done. Or, at least, like nothing else that he remembered.

The part of him that would've wrestled for control with anyone else had gone quiet. He just let Ian dictate everything.

When his orgasm hit, it felt like it tore through his whole body completely unexpectedly, and he moaned without meaning to making any sound at all. 

Ian's eyes were closed as well, and while Mickey's orgasm may have been something of a surprise to him, it wasn't to Ian. Mickey's body still felt the same to Ian, moved the same and responded the same. Every sound he made was familiar, the way his breathing caught and hitched the exact same as it had in his bedroom their first time and every time since. And when he knew Mickey was close, Ian began to let himself go as well. He felt Mickey come, tightening around him, heard him moan, and a moment later felt him start to come down. 

Only then did Ian finally give in, a gasp followed a series of short, vocal exhales as his hips stuttered against Mickey's and he came inside of him. 

_"Fuck..."_ he whispered softly, even as the last of the aftershocks jerked through him. _"Love you..."_ It wasn't uncommon for them to say it in this moment, but Ian hadn't been planning to. 

Mickey was in a bit of a haze, and it was easy enough to pretend he hadn't heard it. He wouldn't have known how to respond, anyway. He certainly didn't feel equipped to say it back, and what other option was there? 'Thanks'? 

After a long moment, Mickey released Ian's hand, lightly flexing his stiff knuckles. Blearily reaching for the nearest item of clothing - Ian's t-shirt, as it happened - Mickey cleaned himself off and passed it over his shoulder to Ian.

"Holy fuck. _Now_ I wanna rest before supper."

Ian took the shirt and wiped himself off, then tossed it onto the floor again and curled up behind Mickey once more, arm around him, hand on his stomach, knees tucked behind his. 

"Me, too," he said, voice low, sated and relaxed now. "What's the verdict? Do I know how to use that thing?" 

He was glad to skim over the fact that he'd said he loved him, though he couldn't say he regretted that the words had come out. Starting over or not, he did love him. It was bound to slip out sometimes.

"Yeah, you know what? Passable." 

Mickey's lazy grin was audible in his voice. He felt relaxed too, not interested in moving far. 

"When's the last time we did this? Was it a long time before the crash? Feels like it's been fuckin' years."

"The night before your accident," Ian told him. "Honestly, most days we do it at least once. Lots of times twice, or once plus a blow job or something. What can I say? You can't get enough of me." 

His eyes were closed and he was lazily stroking his fingertips back and forth just below Mickey's belly button. 

"Yeah, I'm sure you were just fuckin' humouring me," Mickey said dryly. 

"I think the only thing you liked when I was crazy-manic, back before I was on meds, was that I wanted it, like. All the time," Ian said. "Would wake you up in the night for it." 

Of course, that also meant he cheated. A lot. But that didn't necessarily need to be addressed right now. 

Mickey craned his head around until he could at least partially see Ian's face. "You get like that? When you're not taking your meds?" This was a symptom not described to him by Debbie, perhaps understandably.

"Horny as fuck, all the time? Yeah, it's one possibility. Lucky for you, even on the meds I've still got a healthy sex drive. Oh, except for, like... if I went off them for a while, and they got totally out of my system, when I go back on them, I can't even get it up for weeks. But that won't happen again." 

That had been insanely frustrating for both of them when it had happened. Their relationship, and Ian's mental state, had been in tatters to begin with, then they'd lost the one way they had left to be close to each other. 

"What's our record?” Mickey asked. “How many times in one day?"

"Our record..." Ian honestly had to think about it. "I can think of one time we did it, I think... five or six times? Maybe? Which was awesome until we realized that we both were too sore to fuck again for a couple days."

" _You_ were?” Mickey asked. "I used to top a couple guys a day in juvie easy. You know, if I had to. You get the easy end of it. Different when you're a teenager, though. You just have to look at your dick funny and you get hard. Mandy used to come in the house yelling that if anyone was jerking off in the living room or the kitchen she was gonna start punching dicks."

"I'm sorry," Ian said, both looking and sounding offended. "Did you just compare you fucking guys in juvie to keep from getting jumped to what I just did to you here? Fuck you. And I've got the easy part? Tell me what fucking work you just did? Because unless I blacked out, all you did was lay there. Fuck you, again. Asshole. Mandy _shoulda_ punched you in the dick." 

He cursed again, shaking his head though Mickey couldn't see it.

Mickey laughed at Ian's outrage. "You really think you got a magic dick, huh. You think you're the Michael Phelps of fucking. Bitch, it ain't that hard." 

"That's what you're going with, huh? That it's no big deal. You might want to scroll back through your texts, Mick, look at all the times you demand I come straight home from work to bend you over. Fuck yes, I've got a magic dick. And you can't get enough of it, been coming back for it since I was fifteen." 

Then: "You cold?"

Mickey was still grinning. "Not cold, but if we're having a nap before we eat, I could go for that burrito thing you like so much." 

Ian unwrapped from around him so that he could get the blanket over them, all the while muttering, _"Getting bossy about getting fucked, now he wants the burrito..."_

Mickey rolled onto his back, reaching for Ian. He pulled him down on top of him for a kiss, quieting Ian's muttering. 

"I've been through those texts," he said. "Especially the pictures. Had to know what I was getting myself into. Right? That's part of what made me decide to make a move today. I'm just glad you're good with it, man." 

Ian's eyes were soft when he pulled back and looked down at him. 

"Did you read all of them or just look at the pictures?" he asked. Their texts were always full of filthy things - it was sometimes a game to see who could get the other going more when they had downtime at work - but there was also the day to day stuff as well. Grocery reminders, Ian asking Mickey if he could pick up Franny from her friend's house when Debbie was sick, Mickey checking in on how Ian was feeling after a couple of low days. And there were plenty of texts proving how firmly Ian was still in the honeymoon phase, usually one 'I love you' every day or so. Proof of their life together. And Ian hoped that it wasn't just the pictures that had led to them fucking. 

"Well, I started with the pictures," Mickey admitted. "Not like it was hard. I scrolled down for like, a second and there it was. Wasn't even the only one you sent me _that morning_. Guess I don't open my texts at work." 

He rolled his eyes a little, though not unkindly, at the soft look that Ian was giving him. "But yeah, I read the texts. I had to."

That was the only way that he could get a sense of their relationship from his own perspective. 

"Good,” Ian said. “It's okay if you don't remember, it's not your fault. But I want you to _know_ , at least. You know? It wasn't all bad, it wasn't all crazy. I just want to make sure you know that." 

Ian kissed him again, slow and languid, the opposite of how he'd kissed him just a few minutes before when they'd both been far more desperate. Then, he curled up beside him, draping an arm and leg over him, tugging the blanket over them both, using both his hand and foot to tuck them in. 

"Yeah, alright. I know." 

Mickey squeezed the arm that Ian had draped over him.

"I'm gonna sleep. But wake me up for supper. I heard that there's spaghetti and I can't miss that shit again." 

It only took him maybe forty-five seconds to pass out, blissfully dreamless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We couldn't resist remedying the fact that Ian and Mickey are like, "lube? I don't know her" in canon.


	9. Only to Show You Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm coming up only to hold you under  
> I'm coming up only to show you wrong  
> And to know you is hard, we wonder  
> To know you, all wrong we were.  
>  \--"Funeral", Band of Horses
> 
> CW: Canon-compliant homophobia, abusive parent (Terry is being his usual self, nothing y'all won't have seen on the show, but just to give you a heads up that he's lurking around in this chapter).

The Gallagher house had always had something of a revolving door, but for a long period of time, it had felt more like home for Mandy than her own house. Or, at least, it felt like a home where she knew who was going to be in bed with her, and that person was always of her own choosing, someone she actually wanted there. But it didn't feel like home now, not really, as she climbed the steps and knocked on the door. She knew she was welcome, at least by most of the family (and the one who might not agree didn't live there anymore anyway), and she knew that Ian and Mickey might actually even be happy to see her. But what she didn't expect was a _hug_ when it was Debbie who opened the door. Sure, she'd helped the kid with make-up but that had been ages ago. 

"Hey, Deb..." she said, feeling the stilted half-smile that she always got when someone was genuinely nice to her on her lips. "Good to... see you, too. Are Mickey and Ian here?"

"They are going to be so happy to see you! How are you? Come in!" 

Debbie moved so that Mandy could come in and as she looked around she saw that, really, not much had changed. The pictures on the mantle were updated; they now heavily featured a little ginger girl that had to be Franny along with a nearing-toddler-age boy. Lip's, she knew. She didn't let her gaze linger. 

"... be right back!"   
  
She turned her attention to Debbie again, catching the tail end of what she'd been saying. Something about Mickey and Ian still being in bed? Mandy had left in the middle of the night to get there so of course, no one else in the house was awake. 

"Wait. In bed?" she asked. "Together?" The last time Mandy had risked a call, things were a little strained and Ian had been crashing on the couch. 

Debbie nodded and shrugged. "Things have kind of... evened out here. At least a little." 

Debbie disappeared up the steps and Mandy, not sure if she wanted to sit or not, lingered just inside the foyer, waiting for her brother and best friend to make their appearance. When they did, she again caught herself holding back a full smile when she saw Mickey - first time in years. 

"Shit. No one told me your face got fucked up in the accident. Oh, never mind. That's just how you look. I almost forgot." 

"I _know_ you're not talking about _my_ face, considering I'm the one who got the good looks in the family."

Mickey came to her and pulled her into a swift, tight hug. When he eased back a little, he kept her close, eyes tracking over her face. She had turned up out of the blue, after all. Mickey knew better than to assume that she had showed up at the Gallagher house first thing on a Thursday morning simply to surprise them, especially since she hadn't showed up to see Mickey _any_ where, including the joint, since she had left Chicago.

"You good?" He asked.

Mickey didn't help her unless she asked him to, which was just how their relationship had always been. Sure, he had tried to kick Ian's ass back in the day - because she had wanted him to. But he hadn't helped to clean Karen Jackson out of a car grill or stopped Kenyatta from taking her with him because she hadn't asked, hadn't wanted his help. Mickey wasn't going to intervene in her life if she wanted to handle it herself. But he did want her to know that the option was always there.

"I'm good, Mickey," Mandy said smiling as she stepped out of his arms and into Ian's for a big bear hug. He gave her the same looking-over as Mickey had but knew just as well as Mickey did that when Mandy needed help, she'd ask for it, and not to try to offer it until then. And definitely not to try and force the help on her. 

"And the only one who's ever thought you were good-looking was this guy, here," Mandy said turning back to Mickey again. "So, don't go getting all cocky on me." She let her gaze linger on Mickey and then glanced at Ian, making eye contact for just a second. He got the hint. 

"Hey, I need to shower and then it's my turn for groceries, right? I've got the list but if you think of anything you want, just text me. You too, Mandy." Ian pulled her in for a side hug and kissed the top of her head, then tugged Mickey in by the hip and kissed his cheek before heading up the steps. 

Once he was out of earshot, Mandy said, "Things look like they're going pretty good."

Mickey glanced in the direction Ian had gone.

"Yeah. Well. Definitely better than before."

He wondered how much Ian had told Mandy over the phone. He knew that they still talked far more than he and Mandy did.

"We had a fight. He got sick for a few days. But then we figured it out." He rubbed at his face. "I'm not the guy who wants to talk about his fuckin' feelings so that's a whole other thing. I don't think he wants that all the time anyway, but it makes it hard when we piss each other off and he doesn't wanna hit me because I'm not supposed to hit my head again for a few months."

"Or maybe he doesn't want to hit you as much as he used to. _Maybe,"_ Mandy said in a tone that didn't imply she meant 'maybe' so much as she meant Ian had talked to her about this even though she wasn't going to admit it, "he would never have wanted you to lose your memory but if you two have to start over there are some things he'd like to do differently." 

She gave Mickey a very definite _look_ then leaned against the wall at the foot of the steps. 

"Well, then, _maybe_ ," Mickey said, in exactly the same tone as Mandy, "Ian should tell me this shit. I'm not a fuckin' mind-reader. We already had a fight about him keeping important shit to himself."

He gave her the eyebrows, but really, they were meant for Ian.

Mandy rolled her eyes in response to Mickey's eyebrows. It was definitely meant for him and only him. 

"You wanna go get dressed and take your sister out to breakfast or what?" 

"Yeah, alright,” Mickey said. “I'll get dressed. I'm sure Deb made coffee, if you wanna help yourself."

"Could drink a whole pot of coffee. The bus driver here was on meth, pretty sure. I barely got any sleep. And I'm starving, so hurry up." 

When he went upstairs to get changed, Mickey caught Ian on his way out of the shower. "Hey. You and me need to have a chat when I get back."

In a towel, Ian was combing his wet hair in the bathroom mirror. "What the fuck did I do now?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder, though he didn't sound particularly worried or angry. He'd been happy to see Mandy; it would be good for Mickey to have her around for a while. 

"You know what you did. Stop telling my sister shit that you should be telling me."

Mickey didn't sound angry, just borderline irritated. He disappeared from the doorway and went into their room to get changed.

"Oh, you tell me everything you say to her on the phone?" Ian called after him. He sighed, reaching for the toothpaste. The last thing he wanted was even a little argument now, and he had no idea what Mandy had even told Mickey. Or why. 

Mickey came back moments later to brush his teeth. 

"What's this about you not wanting to get into it anymore?"

"What's this about _what?_ " Ian asked, then thought maybe he knew. It had only been a couple of days prior that he and Mandy had had a conversation about his reluctance to fight with Mickey. "Look, I might have said that I didn't think you and I should have to come to blows to communicate, okay? We're not teenagers anymore, afraid for people to know we're gay and afraid to talk about our feelings. What's wrong with that?"

"Are you just saying that because I'm much fewer head injuries away than before from becoming a complete vegetable?" Mickey spat toothpaste into the sink. "I'm not saying I wanna hit you all the time,” he added, “but I'm not saying I never do. What's wrong with fighting if it solves the problem?" 

"Well, Jesus, Mickey," Ian said. "I'm definitely not going to hit you now, no. That's a stupid fucking question. But, like..." 

He sighed, loudly enough that it was obviously on purpose, and rinsed off his toothbrush, grabbing the hand towel to wipe his mouth. 

"I think it's probably good to _talk_ sometimes, too. Don't you? Maybe instead of hitting me you could just fucking say what's bothering you. Not saying we'll never get into it. Sometimes I want to hit you, too, you know. But we beat the shit out of each other plenty of times and it didn't solve the problem." 

"Fine. Whatever." Mickey ran a comb quickly through his hair, and then glanced at Ian in the mirror. "Maybe next time you just tell me that instead of telling Mandy, huh? We're going for breakfast. I'll see you after. Get a box of the cereal that has the raisins in it and more mouthwash, I'm sick of gargling with vodka."

He swatted Ian's arm lightly.

Ian didn't meet Mickey's gaze but he nodded. 

"Cereal with raisins is fucking disgusting, but whatever. I'll get it," he muttered under his breath. Once Mickey had gone downstairs, Ian went to get dressed, hearing Mandy's voice from the foot of the steps.

"Well, your breath is better but you're still ugly.

"I ain't gotta be pretty, I've already got a husband." Mickey gave her a pointed look, grabbing his jacket and keys.

"Yeah, well, he was my boyfriend before he was your husband. You got my sloppy seconds." As soon as she said it, Mandy clarified in case Mickey wouldn't be sure. "I'm kidding. We kissed sometimes, so people would think it was real. And, yeah, because I liked him. But we didn't sleep together. Which makes my relationship with him as successful as the one I had with his brother." 

"Oh, I know you didn't sleep together,” Mickey said. “Ian told me he tried eating pussy once and had to gargle with beer. Fuckin' diva." 

Mandy immediately felt the need to change the subject. “Where are we going for breakfast? I could really go for Waffle House." 

Mickey nodded. "Waffle House. Done. Let's go."

When they were out on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus, he said, "You have a big fight with your boyfriend last night or what?"

Mandy kept from looking at Mickey by trying to scrape up an old piece of gum with the toe of her boot. 

"No bigger than usual. Mostly I just wanted to come see you guys."

He glanced sidelong at her, but didn't push any further on that front. "Yeah? Well, if you get tired of fighting, you can come back to town. Me and Ian might get a place, one day. If shit stays un-fucked for a while. You can stay with us. Then at least I'll be able to overhear you two talking shit about me."

"That is precisely why I will never live with you two. What fun is trash talking with him if you can hear? Well, that and because I already spent too many nights of my life trying not to hear my brother getting fucked." 

"Like I didn't walk in on you blowing half the field hockey team," Mickey retorted.

"Walking in on is one thing. That lasts about three seconds. You and Ian could go at it for, like, a half-hour straight. And you're not always quiet. I will die on this hill, Mickey. Do not fight me on who had it worse." 

The bus pulled up and as Mandy started up the steps to board, she glanced back over her shoulder at Mickey. 

"Speaking of which, I hear you finally gave it up. I'm surprised you held out this long, no memory or not." 

He followed her onto the bus, and they took a seat closer to the back. 

"Yeah, well. I was getting the lay of the land, alright? I knew it wasn't gonna be just a fuck. Ian has all these feelings and shit."

Sitting down, Mandy kicked Mickey's foot just as he was about to sit. Not enough to trip him into the seat but hard enough that she looked pleased with herself. 

"Just Ian, huh? He the only one with feelings and shit?"

"You know me. Am I usually the guy with all the fuckin' feelings?"

An older lady ahead of them turned around to look at them, scowling at the volume of Mickey's voice. 

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Mickey demanded.

She quickly turned away again. 

"Look," he said to Mandy, lowering his voice slightly. "I like him or whatever. But I'm still getting my shit together. His feelings are a whole other thing."

"Of course his feelings are a whole other thing. You're his husband. And he's on board to start over, but just because you don't remember the last ten years doesn't mean he can forget them just to be on the same playing field." 

Mandy hesitated, then leaned her head on Mickey's shoulder. She only kept it there for about a block and when she removed it there was no indication on her face of whatever emotion of had led her to do it. 

Mickey was so surprised that he just sat there in silence while she did it. They had never really been that type of siblings, too close in age to be inclined to do anything other than actively try to annoy the shit out of each other. It was strange, getting older. 

"I think you guys have a shot," Mandy told him. "I've known you my whole life and I think in some ways I know you even better than he does. And I think there's a shot. Probably a good one. And Ian is my best friend, and, yeah, sometimes I talk to him more than you. Or about you. But you're my brother and I think right now you might need me more than he does. So we can trash talk him a little, if you want." 

Mickey wasn't 'the guy with all the fucking feelings' but Mandy knew that didn't mean he didn't have any at all. 

"I don't need to talk shit about him," Mickey said. "He's doing his best. It's just a weird fuckin' feeling, being a stranger in your own life. I can say anything and he'll get this look on his face and I know that it has to do with something that happened. He doesn't always wanna tell me what it was, even though he's getting better. It's why I'm glad I'm going back to work. I wanna talk to some people who don't know shit about me so I don't always have to be wondering if I'm saying or doing the right thing."

"Yeah, I'm glad you're going back to work," Mandy agreed. "I think it'll be good. For both of you." 

She let a couple more blocks pass in silence. She had no make-up on but for some eye liner smudges that were at least a day old and only a little darker than the circles under her eyes. 

"So, how was it when Ian crashed for a couple of days? For you, I mean."

"Well, I missed half of it. He fucked off to Lip's to do it."

Mickey felt a small surge of annoyance at the memory, even though he fully understood it. He hadn't wanted Ian to see him when he was vulnerable, either, had been irritable and harder to get along with for a good week or so after the crash whenever Ian tried to help him. That was the South Side in them.

"I didn't know it was gonna be like that. He didn't tell me he was bipolar before that, so I didn't know anything about it. I just went over there and he was in bed. Didn't want to get up. Debbie told me that he can get like that for weeks if he's not on meds."

Mandy nodded. "Ian told me a lot about his mom, how it was like a roller coaster growing up with her. Maybe if he'd have told you more about it - before, I mean - when he started showing the signs it would have been easier to deal with." She finally looked over at Mickey. "Does it worry you? That he's bipolar? Does it make you, like... reluctant, or whatever, to be involved? I'm not going to tell him we talked about it. And it's okay if the answer is yes, Mickey." 

"No," Mickey said, and it was true. "He just has to take his meds. I don't know what shit is gonna be like in two years, or five years. I can only deal with right now. And right now he's taking his meds."

Maybe the Mickey who had married Ian had had some vague long-term plans sketched out, but this Mickey didn't. His whole life had been changed in an instant. He could only do one day at a time.

Mandy smiled, just a hint, at Mickey's answer but that faded again immediately at what he said next. 

"You planning on going by the house at all?” he asked. “Since you're in town?"

"Have you been by?" Mandy asked to avoid answering his question. "Since the accident? Have you seen Terry?" 

Their father had always had a way of sniffing out weakness or an opportunity to manipulate to get his way. If Terry had heard about Mickey suddenly not remembering his entire relationship with Ian, surely he'd be lying in wait. 

"No. Wasn't exactly my first stop. And I haven't been out of the house much, except for with Ian." 

Mickey knew what she was thinking; it had occurred to him to.

"I don't really want to see him. But I almost kinda want to get it out of the way. And I've been thinking about the house."

"How come?" 

Mandy was still watching Mickey's face, taking it in as he spoke. Most people who knew him saw the smirks and eyebrows, heard the cursing and sarcasm, thought that Mickey Milkovich was all hard edges and 'I don't give a shit's. But his eyes, no matter how hard she suspected he tried, showed a lot more. As far as she knew, she and Ian were the only two people who had ever really bothered to notice. Maybe Terry had, but he never cared what any of them were really feeling. 

"It's the only place I remember living. And it wasn't always great, but it was home." Mickey could feel Mandy watching him, but he didn't look at her. 

"Do you think it's a good idea to risk seeing Terry at the house without a SWAT team backing you up?" she asked.

"I'm not worried about Terry. I can handle him. Already had my brush with death for the month." He looked over at her then. "Like, you remember that summer when Terry came home from the joint and he got a roll of plastic and a sprinkler from somewhere and made us a slip-and-slide in the yard? Mom was in a good mood, the house was actually clean, Iggy had that hookup with the good weed." He paused. "I'm _not_ saying I wanna live there again, but I kinda want to see it. Who knows? Maybe it jogs some memories."

Mandy hesitated. "I remember." 

That had been the first summer after puberty had found her and Mandy had suddenly been self-conscious around her brothers and father in her now too-small swimsuit. The slip-and-slide had seemed juvenile, now that she was a 'real woman', as her mother had put it the month before when she caught Mandy wadding up toilet paper because their house was devoid of any pads or tampons, as was the case with pretty much anything a pre-teen girl could possibly need. She'd only taken one pass on it, because Terry had put a heavy hand on her shoulder and asked her if she thought she was too good for the present he'd gotten for them. No, he'd asked her if she was 'too fucking uppity', which is what he'd always accused their mother of being when she'd been brave enough (or drunk or high enough) to voice a desire for anything better than what they had, be it her old and worn clothes or their lack of food or her piece-of-shit husband. So, yeah, Mandy remembered the day Mickey was talking about. She just remembered it a little differently. But she understood the point he was trying to make. For the Milkoviches, it really had been a good day.

"I remember your first Little League game," she said. "Maybe not your first but... your team was winning and you tripped a kid from the other team to keep him from making it around the bases. I remember Terry telling you to do shit like that when we'd all be in the car on the way to the game. He let us take home freeze-pops from the ice cream truck that day. Remember? He let us eat them in the living room while he watched the Cubs game."

"Forgot about that," Mickey said, unsure if it was from hitting his head or just the passage of time. It could be either, honestly. "I do remember being a little shit at my ball games. Pretty sure that coach hated me. He definitely hated Terry more, though. He waited for a game when dad wasn't there to kick me off the team."

Mickey grabbed the bar and pulled himself to his feet as the bus slowed at their stop.

"Did he? I remember Terry being pissed you were kicked off. He ever go after the guy?" Mandy figured that the coach waiting until Terry wasn't around to give Mickey the boot probably didn't prevent him from getting his ass kicked. Likely, it had only just delayed it. She followed Mickey as he made his way to the front of the bus, tugging her sweater around her once they were off and walking again. 

"No idea," Mickey said. "I remember the ass-kicking I got. He chased me through eight back yards." There was a pause. "You think he knows what happened to me? Terry?" 

"I don't know,” Mandy said. “I don't exactly keep in touch. But word travels. Especially at the Alibi."

As they walked, Mickey jammed his hands into his pockets. "Surprised he hasn't shown up yet. Not to pay a nice visit. But you know."

Mandy laughed. 

"Yeah, I'm sure he's hoping you forgot you're gay. You know, I was wondering about something. Besides the fact that you're married and all - to a Gallagher, no less, I know that had to blow your mind - it must feel good to know you were able to come out and have had a long-term relationship, right? Like, the last things you remember well were probably from a time when you thought you'd never get to do any of that. So, I know the rest of this really has sucked, but to find out you don't have to hide who you are? That you've still got me, you've got a legal job, you've got people who actually like you for some unknown reason... does that feel good?" 

Mickey looked like the question caught him off-guard. He mused over it for a long moment.

"I don't know," he said, at last. "I'm still getting used to it. I definitely didn't picture it like this. Honestly, I thought I was gonna end up like dad." _Or dead,_ he didn’t add, not thinking he needed to.

He had imagined ending up like their father a lot, as a kid, back when he'd still been able to overlook a lot of Terry's bullshit. And then, later, when he had realized grimly, bitterly, that the universe had played the ultimate trick on him, he had imagined being like Terry in different light. 

"Definitely didn't think I was the relationship guy. Gay or otherwise. So there's that, too. It's all fuckin' weird."

"For what it's worth, I don't think you were ever going to end up like Terry," Mandy told him. "Colin and Iggy are too fucking stupid to be anything _but_ like Terry. Like, they’re not as bad – or as mean – as he is, obviously, but you know what I mean. In terms of life decisions. But I always figured if anyone broke the trend, it would be you."

Mickey felt oddly touched by that.

When they got to Waffle House, Mandy pulled the door opened and looked over her shoulder at Mickey. 

"You're paying, right? Because I have about six bucks to my name." 

"So do I; lucky for us, me and Ian have a joint account."

"Oh, well, if breakfast is on you _and_ Ian..." 

Mandy smiled as she took her seat, looking over the plastic menu. Mickey pulled a menu towards him but didn't look at it.

"What did you mean, that you didn't think I was gonna be like Terry? I definitely spent a lot of time trying to be." He didn't know why he asked, except that he had never before even considered that Mandy would have given this any thought. That, and the fact that he didn't clearly remember the period of time when he had become, unequivocally, _not_ like Terry.

Mandy waited until after they'd ordered (chocolate chip waffle, scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns for her; if it hadn't been obvious before that she was starving it would be now) to reply to his question. 

"Yeah, you spent time _trying_ to be, you spent time _acting_ like him. But you weren't him down deep. You're smarter than he is, for one. You're just as smart as - as anyone else but it isn't like anyone at home or school gave a shit. And you've taken better care of me than Terry ever did. You took care of Yev, you took care of Ian. I know you don't remember, but I do. And I won't let you end up like Terry just because you don't remember how you managed not to the first time around."

"I don't think you have to worry about that." Mickey experienced a strange sort of feeling that Mandy felt so protective of him. It took him a moment to realize that it was because their family didn't talk about loving each other. But sometimes they talked about keeping each other safe. And that was almost the same thing. "I talked to Svetlana a little while ago, Yev's mom. She told me all the shit that Ian didn't want to, about where Yev came from. And I gotta think... that had to be the first crack in everything that I thought my life was gonna be. Because I'm not gonna do the kind of shit Terry did to us. I don't have that in me."

Mandy's forehead wrinkled a little in confusion. "What do you mean? What didn't Ian tell you? You didn't know you fucked girls, too?" 

She had just always figured he frequented the same whore houses Terry had when he wasn't banging neighbourhood girls. Then, when Ian had gotten plastered at Mickey's wedding and the truth had come out, she had assumed Mickey was just keeping up the act so Terry wouldn't kill him.

"What did Terry do?" she asked, starting to get a sick feeling in her stomach, not sure she really wanted to know. 

Realizing now that Mandy didn't know, Mickey regretted saying anything. He had assumed that Ian had told her. He knew she had been through enough with Terry not to need this on her mind too. 

"Are you sure you wanna know?" he asked. "It's not a good story. I think that... no, I _know_ that the only reason I can talk about it is that I don't actually remember it. Feels like someone else's shitty experience."

"Are you sure you wanna tell me?" Mandy returned. Clearly, Mickey had thought she already knew, or he wouldn't have brought it up. "You can, if you want. I don't think anything he did could surprise me anymore. Do you, um... remember my fundraiser at the Alibi? Did Ian tell you about that yet?"

"No, he didn't tell me," Mickey said, and it felt like the hundred and twenty-seventh time he had said that recently. "He doesn't tell me a lot of things. I'm trying to be understanding about the fact that he thinks he's protecting me. He was pissed when I told him that I was gonna talk to Svetlana."

"He's trying, Mickey," Mandy said gently, but she wasn't here to defend Ian and she knew that even _Ian_ knew that he'd held back too much. He'd admitted that to her, though maybe not to Mickey. She made a mental note to nudge him in that direction, feeling very much like some kind of untrained and unpaid therapist. 

Mickey knew he had to ask. "What was the fundraiser for?"

"We sold cookies and shit because I had to have an abortion and didn't have the money." She held Mickey's gaze for a beat too long, her way of telling him who the father had been without having to say it out loud. "Ian and Lip and Debbie really stepped up to help, though we didn't tell Debbie the whole story. She was just a kid."

"Holy fuck." Mickey didn't need long to understand what she meant. He tried to remember if he had known about all of that while it was happening, but came up blank. So, knowing that he might not like the answer, he asked:

"Did I know that he was doing that?" 

Mandy nodded but then she shrugged, looking down at her hands. 

"He, um. He never did it on purpose. Just sometimes when he got really drunk... he thought I was Mom. He'd get in my bed, call me her name. And he felt bad after, when he remembered. He never said so but, like. He'd be real nice to me for a couple days. 

"Fuck, Mandy." Mickey couldn't say he was shocked; when she explained it, it felt like confirmation of something unpleasant that he had already understood. He wasn't an outsider to their family. They had both grown up with the same parents; it had just left different marks, that's all. 

"You know, I used to be kind of jealous that he never beat your ass like he did to me and our brothers whenever we fucked up. You were like the fuckin' Terry charmer."

"Of course he never hit me," Mandy said with a humourless laugh. "Beating you boys was one thing, but you know how he felt about someone who put their hands on a girl. Or a kid. That's why he was always so nice after he'd... do what he did. It was the only fucking time I ever saw him sorry for anything.”

"Did he only start that shit after mom left?" Mickey could only assume.

“Yeah... yeah, it started after mom left. Like I said, he thought I was her." The waitress came with drinks and Mandy took a long swallow from the straw in her orange juice and quickly used it as an excuse to change the subject. "You have any idea how long it's been since I had this?" 

On the rare occasions Terry gave her enough money for groceries that she could buy something as much of a splurge as orange juice was, she'd always sneak a glass first from the jug, then add water to fill it back up so the boys wouldn't know when they made it disappear in about three seconds. It was the only way she ever got any of it. 

"Orange juice?" Mickey asked. "The Gallaghers go through that shit like water. Ian isn't supposed to drink coffee or beer so he practically fuckin' mainlines it. I'm lucky if I ever see the jug." 

Mandy watched him, letting a beat pass. "You gonna tell me about Yev?"

Mickey dumped a healthy amount of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. 

"Uh, listen. It's not as bad as what happened to you. I'm not saying that it is. I only brought it up because I thought you already knew." He folded one hand into a loose fist and rested his knuckles on the table, as though knocking. His coffee sat untouched. "Terry caught me and Ian messing around. You can probably imagine how pissed he was. I can. Even if I don't remember. He, uh. Basically beat the shit out of us and made me fuck Svetlana at gunpoint while Ian watched." He paused. "I'm not that upset that I don't remember that."

Mandy wondered how she could have missed it, missed that there was _something_ more going on than Mickey knocking up a girl and getting married. Of course, she hadn't known until the wedding that he was gay - or at least banging Ian - and she'd been so absorbed with Lip that she wasn't aware of much else. But still. She should have _known_. 

"Mickey," she said softly, not touching him, not reaching for his hand, but the tone of her voice so gentle it was almost like physical contact. "You do realize that that's not all that different from what he did to me, right?" Maybe worse, since it had been on purpose. She would never know how he really felt about it; the catch-22 that they found themselves in was that Mickey would never talk about it again, once he got his memory back. But she could imagine. No fucking wonder Ian hadn't wanted to tell him about that, and no wonder, even though Ian told her almost everything and had done so for the better part of a decade, he hadn't confided that. 

Mickey couldn't remember having been spoken to in that tone by anyone, ever, and he didn't exactly know what to do with it. Even Ian wasn't that gentle with him (in his recollection). Of course, Mandy would be one of a very small number of people - maybe the only person - who knew firsthand that Mickey hadn't been _born_ with knuckle tattoos and a bad reputation, had probably seen him cry once or twice before he got tough.

Mickey's first instinct was to pull back entirely and brush her off. But, with effort, he pushed back on that and stayed silent for a second or two instead, sitting with it. 

"Well, I guess we got past it," he said, at last, not looking at her - uncomfortable, maybe. Or something else.

So many things made sense now, things that Mickey had said and done, the way he'd acted around Yevgeny. And maybe if they were any other family Mandy would have said more. But they weren't, so she didn't. There might be a time and place when it would be good for Mickey to talk about those things, but it wasn't in the middle of a Waffle House when he didn't even remember it happening. So, Mandy let him change the subject. 

"Do you, uh. Ever think about mom?"

"No. I don't." The sharp edge in her voice could have cut glass. "She left, she doesn't think about us. So I don't waste my time." A girl _needs_ her mom; Mandy had needed hers many times. But she'd cut and run, so fuck her. 

"Yeah." Mickey glanced out the window. "I don't know if I invited her to the wedding. I know she didn't come." And it went without saying that she hadn't reached out since Mickey had nearly been killed by a drug cartel. Mickey didn't even know if she was _alive_. But he hadn't made any effort to find out, so he supposed that he couldn't exactly claim any moral high ground. "Neither did you, though." 

Mandy glanced up at Mickey in surprise but her eyes immediately slid away again. 

"That's not fair," was all that she said. Maybe Mickey didn't remember, maybe Ian hadn't told him. But, still, he had to know she'd have been there if she could have. 

"I'm not giving you shit," Mickey said at once, putting out a placating hand. "I'm just saying that people have their reasons. I don't think I can blame her for having had it up to here with dad. And it's not like she was really cut out to look after us by herself." 

Mandy rolled her eyes but didn't quite achieve the 'I don't give a fuck' she was going for. 

"Yeah, so she left me to look after him. And all of you fucking boys. I blame her a whole fucking lot."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not saying she was right. I'm just saying I get it."

He stopped talking then, as the waitress brought Mandy's mountain of food and a bacon, egg, and cheese melt with hash browns for Mickey. He steadied one of the plates as the waitress wavered a little, and she smiled at him before leaving them alone. 

Mickey reached for his coffee cup. "You ever think about the year dad dropped us off with social services and fucked off?"

"I don't think about either of them. At all. Ever. And I'll never get it."   
  
Mandy busied herself with pouring syrup all over both her waffle and her eggs, then cutting the waffle into bites, something to focus on other than the conversation at hand. 

"What are you gonna do if Terry shows up on your doorstep? Bound to happen sooner or later, right?"

"I don't know," Mickey said honestly. "It depends, I guess. Can’t imagine he’d be showing up with a fruit basket." 

He shrugged a little. "I don't think he wants to be my pal, so maybe I'll get lucky and he'll leave me alone. If he doesn't, then I'll deal with it. I'm not letting him wave a gun around at the house, there's kids there."

"It's just... weird that he hasn't come around," Mandy said, eating two big bites of waffle at one time. If she ever worried about table manners it wouldn't be when she was starving and eating in front of Mickey. "From what Ian told me, he's been actively trying to kill you since word got out you were getting married. But now - nothing?"

"Terry's an out-of-sight-out-of-mind guy," Mickey pointed out. "Always has been. We got into it pretty good at the Alibi when I came out from what Ian tells me, but I know I've spoken to him since. Apparently he asked me to go on a gun run with him before he found out I was getting married. He keeps thinking that me being gay will magically solve itself." He shrugged. "Or, he's back in the joint. Or he got shot by a gangbanger. Either way, he's not my problem. Although I’d be real fuckin’ interested in knowing for sure." 

Mandy shook her head as she ate a strip of bacon, which she'd also dipped in the syrup. 

"The night you came out, I - " She exhaled heavily, took a drink after putting the bacon back down. "I saw you, after. Svetlana told me what happened. I can't believe he didn't kill you. I don't think I've ever been so relieved that he was back in the joint, which is, you know, saying something."

Mickey knew what she meant. "Sometimes I think about the fact that my dumb ass is only alive because of Ian having my back, but then I think about the fact that half the time it was his fault that I was knee-deep in shit in the first place." 

Mickey didn't know if that particular pattern was something that he had noticed before the crash, but it was easy enough to see it now that everything had to be recounted back to him, cause-and-effect style. "Don't tell Ian I said that," he added. "He gets touchy."

"He knows," Mandy said. "Trust me. You don't have to tell him." 

Sometimes it wasn't easy having your best friend married to your brother. Especially when they could both be assholes and idiots. 

She looked across the table at Mickey. "Should be easy enough to find out if Terry's in or out, right? Ask Kev. If Terry's still kicking, he'll be doing it at the Alibi, I bet." 

Mickey nodded. "Yeah. I could ask him. Don't really want to give Terry the heads up, though. I could just go by the house."

"Go by the house?” she echoed, her food momentarily forgotten. “You've got to be joking. You just going to show up or should I paint a target on your shirt to make it _real_ easy for Terry?"

"I'll see him sooner or later,” Mickey pointed out. “It's better if I can do it on my terms. And it's better if I don't tell Ian because he'll lose his shit, so keep your mouth shut. Please." 

He pushed his coffee cup toward the edge of the table for a refill. 

"Anyway, Colin owes me eighty bucks, so I was gonna go over there anyway."

Mandy opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again. 

"You should tell Ian," she said. "Look, I've been trying real hard to not interfere, on either end. But I gotta say that. You should tell him. Because he's going to find out one way or the other and, yeah. He's gonna lose his shit when he does." 

And whether Mickey told Ian or he didn't, it was still a really dumb fucking idea. 

"Yeah, well, I'll take that under advisement," Mickey said, in a tone that suggested that he was unlikely to do any such thing. Truthfully, he was worried that they would have another knock-down, drag-out fight about it, or worse, that Ian would want to come with him. It was just better if he handled it himself.

"You don't remember getting married - either time - but you remember Colin owes you eighty bucks?” Mandy asked. “Seriously? And why the fuck were you loaning him money?"

"I _don't_ remember that Colin owes me money,” Mickey replied, “but I've been reading through my old texts, and my last one to him is, _'you owe me 80 bucks, asshole, don't make me come and find you_ '. He probably thinks he's off the hook." 

"Mickey..." Mandy sighed, looking both unsurprised by Mickey's response but also displeased with it. "I _really_ think you should tell Ian. It's stupid, just showing up at Terry's all alone. What the fuck am I supposed to tell Ian when you're left on the porch with a fucking hole in your chest? I know you don't have the memories, but... a lot of people worked really hard to make sure you guys could get married and be safe. It's kind of a dick move to say 'screw that, I'll do whatever I want'. At least take Sandy?"

Mickey sighed. "I'll think about it. Okay?" He gave her the eyebrows, the same way he did when he was grudgingly letting Ian talk him into something. "You and Ian live to bust my ass, huh?" 

"Fuck off," Mandy said with a hint of a smile. "Ian's and my sole reason for existence seems to be just keeping your ass alive half the time."

He shook his head as he sat back and reached for a napkin. "Terry's not gonna kill me on the front porch,” he muttered. “Even he's not that stupid." 

Mandy looked up from her food, wide-eyed. 

"Are you kidding? Mickey, he was going to kill you _at your wedding_. He came to your house just a few days before, with a gun, calling you out onto the street and pulled that gun on you. Did Ian tell you that? He absolutely will kill you on the porch, dumbass." 

"Yeah, he came by, but I'm alive, aren't I?" Mickey was confident that he had a pretty good handle on what Terry would or wouldn't do; he had spent most of his childhood making choices based on Terry's presence or mood, after all. "He doesn't want me to be dead. He wants me to stop being gay. You said it yourself. He could've come around any time after the crash, but he didn't. It would've been pretty easy to kill me in the hospital, or the first couple of days after I got home."

"Maybe he didn't know!" Mandy said before putting her hands in the air in defeat and then picking up her fork again. "Whatever, Mickey. He almost beats you to death and more than once, he burns down your wedding venue, he comes at you with a gun in the street... But you gotta be the tough guy, you gotta out-Terry-Milkovich Terry Milkovich when it comes to who's the bigger hard-ass. Ian was right - you might not remember shit but you are still the same, old Mickey." It wasn't said unkindly, exactly; mostly, she was just resigned. 

"Ian said that?"

One of the things that had prompted Mickey to read all of his old texts, among other things, was that he didn't remember what he was _supposed to be like_ , or at least, who he had been before the crash. He had no metric by which to try and measure how much he had changed, or hadn't. It was difficult enough to figure out how to fit into a life he didn't remember; he was trying to figure out how to fit into a personality, too. "Is that the kind of shit you guys talk about?"

"What do you mean, is that the kind of shit we talk about?” Mandy asked. “Of course, it is. I ask how you're doing, he gives me updates. I ask if your memory is coming back, he says not really. I ask how you're hanging in, he laughs and says you're still Mickey, that you'll always be Mickey Milkovich even if your last name is Gallagher, even if you don't remember." 

Mandy waved the waitress over to get another juice, which probably was more proof of her friendship with Ian than anything else, since it was half his money paying for it, and juices didn't come with free refills. 

"I think you've got the wrong idea about what we talk about, Mickey. He hasn't called to bitch about you since before the accident. I think he'd feel bad if he did it now."

"I'm not mad that you talk about me. I just didn't - know, exactly, if I was still the same as I was before." He finished his coffee and pushed his plate away, silent as the waitress brought Mandy more orange juice and took Mickey's dishes away. "I'm glad that you have someone to talk to. I'm even glad it's Ian." 

Mandy still had part of a waffle and some hash browns left and she nodded towards her plates. 

"Do you want some of mine?" she asked, though she was hoping he would say no.

"Nah, you eat it," Mickey said. He was already planning on buying her more food before she left to go home. 

"You're a little different, that's what he tells me,” Mandy told him. “You're more polite, sort of. But he thinks that's just because they all feel like strangers to you. He said you still have the same eyes, meaning you're shit at hiding what you're thinking. And he's definitely right. But he told me - and I can see it, too - that really you're still you. And we're both happy about that."

"I'm definitely nicer to Ian's family than I was before,” Mickey agreed. “I can tell just by the way they act. I'm even nice to the little fucker who keeps trying to get one over on me. Liam. That kid can pull a scam. Keeps trying to take advantage of the fact that I can't remember shit." 

"Reminds you of you as a kid, huh?" 

Mandy ate the rest of her food quickly, feeling self-conscious that he was done when she wasn't. When she'd finished, she leaned back in her seat. 

"So. We going to the house or what? Let's get it over with." 

"You're coming with me to the house?" Mickey hadn't meant to try and talk her into coming. "You don't have to, if you're just doing it to stop me from going alone. I'll bring Sandy, like you said." 

More than ever, after their conversation today, he knew how much she must dread seeing Terry. 

"I'm going with you." Mandy finished up her juice, wiped her mouth, then stood up. "Leave a good tip. That's the best food I've had in a long damn time. Consider it my fee for putting up with you." 

"Oh, you're putting up with me?" Mickey grumbled, but he paid and left a slightly bigger tip than usual, just to put some good karma out into the universe. They had taken good care of his sister, after all. 

When they were back on the bus again, Mickey tried one more time.

"You don't have to come in."

"Oh, I'm not going in," Mandy said right away. "Neither are you. We're going to the porch, you're going to find out if Terry is still out of the joint, see if you can find out if he knows about your accident, and then we're leaving." She gave him a very stern look. "I mean it, Mickey. We're _not going inside that house_."

"Alright, alright. We won't go in." Mickey could barely imagine a context where they would, anyway. Surely Terry wasn't about to invite them in - or not Mickey, at least. 

When the bus pulled up a few houses down from theirs, Mickey led the way onto the pavement outside and toward the house. They reached the gate and he stopped, looking up at it. It hadn't changed. The yard was still full of broken glass, and there was a puddle of something that looked like oil on the porch. There was something that fluttered, very briefly, in the back of his mind, but no fully-formed memory emerged. 

Pushing open the gate, he held it for Mandy and then made his way up the steps and knocked on the door before he could second-guess himself. 

Mandy stood behind Mickey, not at all pleased to be there. It was as if some time away made it even harder to be here again, even though she'd spent most of her life inside these walls. 

A few seconds after Mickey knocked, the door swung open to reveal Iggy with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a beer can in his hand. He belched then looked Mickey up and down. 

"Fuck are you doin' here. Thought you forgot who you were or some shit?"

"I didn't forget who I was, dipshit." 

For however much Mickey had been the ringleader of his several older, much dimmer brothers throughout their teenage years, he had never felt the kind of affection for them that he felt for Mandy. They were alright to have a beer with - and they were family - but they didn't have anything in common. Mickey wasn't surprised that Iggy had heard that he had been in a near-fatal car crash and hadn't followed up, and he wasn't about to try and explain the intricacies of his head injury to someone who thought that buffalo wings came from buffaloes. 

"Is dad here?"

Iggy's face remained emotionless, even when he caught sight of Mandy standing behind Mickey. His gaze simply flicked from her face back to Mickey's as the question Mickey had asked finally made its way between his ears. 

"Yeah," he said. "In the kitchen." 

He didn't offer to let them in, didn't call for Terry. It was as if he'd comprehended Mickey's question but no kind of follow up that might come after. 

"Fuckin' super, thanks, that was all we needed," Mickey said, knowing as he did that Iggy would not grasp the sarcasm. "Go get him. Tell him there's someone at the door. And tell Colin I'm waiting for my fucking money."

Iggy shrugged and disappeared back into the house, leaving the door open. A few seconds later, Colin's voice came yelling from inside, a loud, _"Fuck off, Mickey."_ Right after, a heavy footfall could be heard and even before Terry came into view, for one brief second, Mandy gripped the back of Mickey's shirt. Whether she was uneasy or reminding him that he was not to go inside wasn't clear. 

When Terry appeared, clad in a dirty tank top and boxers along with socks that each had holes visible, he too was smoking but in his hands was a shotgun that he was cleaning the barrel of. 

"The fuck do you want?" he said, a near echo of Iggy's less-than-welcoming greeting. "That ginger fag kick you out now that you're damaged goods so you thought you'd come crawling back here?"

"Yeah, I'm fine dad, thanks for asking." Mickey remembered when mouthing off got you a fat lip, but Terry had started doing that a lot less when his boys got big enough to return the favour. "Still married, still gay. Just came to see if you were in the joint or not because you haven't come by waving a gun around this week. You get bored, or what?" 

"Giving you the chance to remember you're a Milkovich," Terry said, not even looking at Mickey, but peering down the barrel of the gun to inspect his work. "You sure as fuck weren't a pole smoker until that Gallagher kid made you think you were." 

Mickey rolled his eyes. "No one's dick is _that_ good." He was not unaware of the gun, but honestly, he had had so many conversations in his life over a gun - or a heap of guns - that it wasn't making him tense. Not yet. "So you knew about the car crash? You know about the cartel, too?" 

"Mighta heard something." Terry looked up from the gun but not at Mickey. Instead, he called in over his shoulder to no one in particular, "Bring me some shells." 

If he'd noticed Mandy was there, too, he'd given no sign as of yet. 

"We got a gun run tomorrow. Could use you to drive. Those two dumb fucks - " He gestured with a backward jerk of his head to the inside of the house. " - couldn't find their assholes with a flashlight. Figure you can at least do that by now. Or do you need your boyfriend's help?" 

"He's my husband," Mickey corrected flatly. "And great as he is at finding assholes, I don't think we need to bring him into this."

Mickey already knew that, even if some part of him was interested in spending the afternoon with Terry - which it was decidedly not - the conniption that Ian would have was _not_ worth the trouble. "I can't go on a gun run with you, I'm on parole. Trying to keep my nose clean, for once."

Terry didn't reply at first, mostly because Colin had arrived with a handful of shells. He lingered until Terry told him he didn't need help 'loading a fucking shotgun'. As he put in the first of the shells, Terry spit out the cigarette which he'd managed to drag down to nothing but a butt without ever taking hold of it. 

"So, if you're not going to help out the family business, and you're still playing fucking housewife, how do you plan to pay back your old man for keeping the cartel you pissed off from coming to finish the job they fucked up first time around?"

Mickey had one eye on the shotgun shells, but he didn't miss a word that Terry said.

It caught him completely by surprise. What on God's green and verdant earth did Terry have to do with the cartel Mickey had rolled on? "What? What did you do?" 

"You're not the only one with contacts on the inside.” Terry seemed to faintly relish knowing something that Mickey didn’t. “You think you're the first Milkovich to have to make nice with the Mexicans to get shit done? I worked for them for a long time. Done a lot of time. They owe me a favour or two." 

Terry cracked the barrel of the shotgun back in place, aiming it one-handed just over Mickey's right shoulder. 

"I let them know that if anyone was taking you out, it wasn't gonna be a bunch of fuckin’ Mexicans." 

Mickey didn't twitch. He had wondered, whenever he had left the house since the crash, whether the cartel knew that he wasn't dead and if they'd send someone to finish the job. Because he had already had a brush with death and just trying to get better was exhausting on its own, he hadn't been afraid, exactly; his thoughts had had a more philosophical bent, like, _maybe they'll wait until I'm recovered to kill me, just so it'll be worse_. 

Now that he knew why they hadn't come back, he didn't feel as relieved as he might have. 

"I didn't ask you to do that," he said. "If you think that I owe you, then fine, we'll figure something out so that I don’t have to hear about this shit ever again. But I'm not gonna live under this roof again."

"You owe me for a hell of a lot more than just that." Terry had still yet to acknowledge Mandy in any way but he'd noticed her, that was for certain. "Now you can't even come see your old man without a fucking girl to back you up?"

Mickey reached behind him, covertly, just checking that Mandy was still behind him, but didn’t respond to Terry’s jab. She didn’t deserve to be dragged in any more than she already had.

"Couldn't just not want me dead because you're my fucking dad, huh?" he asked, almost more to himself than anything. Of course it was just about what Terry could get from him. Mickey wasn't surprised but he was sick to death of it. 

Finally, Terry looked Mickey square in the eye. 

"I don't see my grandson because that fucking fairy's been leading you around by the dick, filling your head with bullshit. I gave you a wedding, you had a roof over your head, and your kid's even, when I was in the joint. Fucking Gallagher forced you to give that all up. Bet he's glad you don't remember that part."

"Nah, see, you know why you don't see your grandson.” Mickey knew that he was letting Terry know exactly how much he was getting to him, but he couldn’t stop himself. “That's exactly what you deserve. And you know what? I still talk to the kid. He knows me. But he's never gonna know you." 

"He knows you?" That got a hoarse belly laugh that turned into a cough. "What's he fucking know you as? Not his father, that's for damn sure. You walked away from your whole family - your own goddamn father _and_ son - because that fucking queen gave you some kind of ultimatum. You think I didn't find out that shit? But you got a clear head now, not fogged up with his faggoty-ass bullshit. So, I'm giving you a choice. You can get back here, where you belong, maybe even convince that Russian bitch to come back so you can raise your son the way he should be raised, or - " He brought up the shotgun again and this time he wasn't pointing over Mickey's shoulder. " - you've got ‘til the count of three to get out of my sight." 

Mickey took a step back, finding Mandy's wrist and making sure that she was backing up, too. He didn't want to turn his back on Terry, and he also wanted to stay between him and Mandy.

"The next time you point a gun at me," he said steadily, even as he moved down the stairs, "you better plan on pulling the trigger." 

Terry didn’t say anything, but took aim.

When they got to the gate, Mickey shook his head slightly. You couldn't be disappointed if you went in with no expectations, but it sort of felt that way. "Good talk, dad."

Just as Mandy had stepped through the gate, the blast of the shotgun was heard, barely an instant after the ground a few feet from where they stood was kicked up with buckshot, far enough away that it missed but close enough that the missing had been obviously on purpose. Mandy cursed and grabbed Mickey's hand, ready to drag him if she had to. 

"The next time I point a gun at you," Terry called from the porch, "I won't miss. It's not the cartel you better be watching for now." 

Mickey squeezed Mandy's hand and thought the better of trying to get the last word. They hustled down the street until they were out of sight of the house. It was clear that Terry did not intend to follow them. 

"Holy fuck." Mickey looked more annoyed than anything. "How is he worse than I remembered? Fuck." Without warning, he aimed a vicious kick at a stack of discarded magazines on the curb. They scattered across the pavement. "Of all the aneurysms happening right now, not one of them could be happening to fucking _Terry_?"

Mandy, though her eyes were red and her hands were shaking, gave Mickey the hardest shove that she could gather the strength for. 

"I told you!" she said, voice raised and as unsteady as her hands were. "I _fucking told you!_ Are you happy now? He's worse than you remember because you _don't_ fucking remember. The last you knew, he was just an asshole. Now he's an asshole who's been locked up for most of the last ten years who can't fucking see straight because he's got a gay son that he thinks humiliated him. Now he's the prick who doesn't see his grandson and you _know_ how Terry feels about Milkoviches sticking together and being raised together. I tried to tell you, _Ian_ tried to tell you. Do you believe us now? That he'll fucking kill you?"

She stopped yelling as abruptly as she'd started, shaking out her hands as if ridding herself of even being near their father again, then turned and headed in the direction of the Gallagher house for lack of anywhere else to go. 

"Mandy!" 

Mickey followed after her, caught up to her, and fell into step beside her. "Hey. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Okay? It wasn't that I didn't believe you. I just couldn't go around not knowing if he was gonna wake up today and decide to kill me. I had to know where the fuck he's been and why he was so quiet."

"He was waiting for you." As soon as Mandy said it, she knew she was right and she stopped short in the middle of the block. "He knew you'd come. You - " She was looking at Mickey but suddenly she didn't look like she wanted to finish what she'd been about to say. 

"What?"

Mickey stared at her, having come to a stop as well. 

"I think he knows - we _all_ know - that part of you..." Mandy looked almost apologetic. 

"Part of you wanted to please him. I saw it, when he'd praise you for how fast you could always work the numbers when he'd be selling the guns. I know Terry sure as fuck saw it, he fucking bragged about you when you were in juvie. Even - even Ian saw it. He said he felt like it was a tug-of-war sometimes. I think your accident was the best thing to happen to Terry in a long time. He knew you'd come back, as soon as he heard about it I bet."

Mickey blinked. And maybe, with anyone else - even with Ian - he would have argued the point. Or maybe he would even have argued it with Mandy, before the accident. But his older memories, of growing up with Terry, were some of his only memories now, and while he knew better than to trust him, he could also recognize that there had been a time when he had wanted to. 

"Yeah," he said, finally. "He's my fucking dad. And when he was in a good mood, he wasn't looking for reasons to give us shit. Did anyone but him ever tell me I was good at shit? Like math? You know anyone else who bragged about me?"

He paused, then shook his head. "But I burned that fucking bridge a long time ago, and I did it in front of everyone. So don't fuckin' look at me like that, like I'm trying to get back into his good graces, because that's not what this was about."

"I'm not looking at you like anything, Mickey,” Mandy said. “But... didn't part of you hope that you'd come here and he'd be different? Wasn't that the point, _really_? And you know that if you'd have told him you were leaving Ian and wanted to come home, he'd have let you right back into your old room again. You've always been his favourite. Why do you think he's so pissed about the gay thing? You think if Colin or Iggy came out he'd give half as much of a shit? Jesus, Mickey, he _called off the cartel for you_. So, do I think you're _trying_ to get back into his good graces? No. But do I think part of you still wishes you _were?_ Yeah."

Mandy started walking again, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, trying to get warm, trying to hold herself together. 

Mickey followed her. "Mandy, come on. I know better than that. Yeah, he called off the cartel for me, but he did it for his own bullshit reasons, and only after he threatened to kill me six or eight or twelve fucking times. I could move back into my old room but _only if_ I undid everything that I've done for myself over the last ten years. And I may not remember all of the shit that happened, but I sure as shit know I'm better off now."

"I get it, okay?” Mandy said. “Because as fucked up as it is, when he said he called off the cartel, you know what my first reaction was? I was jealous. He never did anything like that for me. He was only ever nice _after_ he did something wrong. But with you, suddenly he's doing something nice for you _before_ you even come by?" She shook her head. "God, we are a fucked-up bunch of people." 

Mickey took off his jacket almost without thinking about it and handed it to her as they walked. "There's nothing to be jealous of because he's not being nice. He would still rather me be dead than gay, and that's the shit I've been worried about since I was eleven fucking years old. I used to pray that I'd get big enough to fight back before he figured it out. So I _know who he is._ And I don't want anything from him because nothing comes from him without strings attached."

Mandy looked about to argue but then just took Mickey's jacket and wrapped it around herself. 

"So, what are you gonna do? Do you think he'll be coming to look for you, to kill you? I was... I was really hoping we'd get there and he'd be locked up again for something. I feel like I'm _more_ worried about you ending up dead now than I was when the cartel was after you, too." 

"What can I do?" Mickey asked. "I can't stop him from coming after me. Well, I could, but Ian's made it pretty clear that he's not in the let's-kill-Terry camp because he doesn't want me doing any more time. The last thing I need is to be locked up with him pissed at me so that he doesn't come and fucking see me."

Mickey jammed his hands into his pockets. "So I guess I carry a gun for a while. Not supposed to have one on parole, but lucky for me, Larry is incredibly fuckin' lax for a P.O. I don't like the idea of waiting to see what Terry'll do, but I guess we've been doing that for twenty-five years, so what's a few more."

Mandy didn't like what Mickey was saying but the thing was, she knew he was right. She wasn't going to waste her breath with any kind of false encouragement or words of advice. They were born and raised South Side, which meant they knew how life worked for them. Other people had fathers who didn't try to kill them, who didn't confuse them with their missing mother, but there was no point in wasting time being envious. Envy didn't keep you alive to fight another day. 

"What can I do?" she asked, not meaning about Terry. "Just... for you. To make things better for you? You and Ian, you're... " She didn't finish but she didn't need to. The two of them were all that she had. 

Mickey wanted to tell her that she didn't have to do anything for them. But he also knew what their family had always been like: _don't help someone unless they ask for help_. And he didn't want her to feel like they didn't need her, since he knew that she didn't have much else. 

"You wanna help us look for places? Like, to live? Maybe with a second bedroom in it? At least we can make it harder for Terry to track me down. And you can do it from home. Look at listings and shit." 

Mandy looked genuinely surprised but did her best to hide it. 

"I - sure. Sure, I can do that," she said after an awkward pause that only lasted a second but felt much longer. "So, you're still wanting to do that? Move out? With Ian?"

Mickey shrugged, glancing over at her. "It's looking like maybe we're gonna figure our shit out. Right? The only other reason we've been in the house this long is because we didn't know if Debbie was gonna do time, and if she was, someone was gonna have to be around for Franny. I'm looking forward to having some peace and fucking quiet. And anyway, I always kinda wanted to do like, home reno type shit. Not as a job, just, you know. In a place of my own." 

Mandy's smile reached her eyes even if her lips still looked unsure as to how to do it properly; if it was hard for her to show her own happiness, it felt even more exposed to show she was happy for someone else. 

"Yeah... Yeah, I'll help. I'd - like that." Many hesitated a moment. "Look. I know he's probably driving you a little crazy and I definitely think you going back to work will be a good thing. But, like... just don't get so irritated that you forget he's just trying to take care of you, okay? And I'm not saying that because Ian's pretty much my best friend, I'm not saying it for his benefit. I'm saying it for _yours_ because, like... Milkoviches don't usually get to have people who want to take care of them. That's all."

"Yeah, because we don't need it." Mickey was mostly kidding. "Do you know how hard my skull had to be to survive that impact intact? A normal person's head would've just - " He mimicked an explosion around his head. "Smashed to smithereens. But not this head. Solid concrete." 

He smiled, just a little, sidelong at her, before his regularly-scheduled scowl returned.

"I know why he's doing it. But by all accounts he was a huge baby about me taking care of him when he was diagnosed with his bipolar, so I _am_ gonna give him shit. He deserves it." 

"Well, yeah," Mandy said, rolling her eyes. "Of course he deserves it. I'm not saying not to give him shit. I'm just saying you were... happy before. And it would be good if you were again. First Milkovich in history to be able to say that. You're basically a unicorn. A big, sparkly, gay unicorn." 

"Oh, I'm a - fuckin' sparkly gay unicorn?" Mickey knocked his shoulder into Mandy, playfully. "I think we both know that Ian is the sparkly one. I have seen his glittery fuckin' underwear and I know for a fact that his Gay Jesus pals have tried to get him on a parade float at Pride." 

Mandy gave Mickey a side-eye glance. 

"Shame you don't remember what he looked like in those sparkly shorts," she teased. "But everyone knew the Gallaghers would eventually churn out someone gay. So that makes _you_ still the resident Milkovich unicorn, sparkly or not." 

"Yeah, well. I have a hunch that I ain't the first." 

As they neared the Gallagher house, he slowed a little. "Hey. Thanks for coming with me. I know you didn't want to." He looked a little embarrassed to say it, but he added, "I wasn't gonna let him near you. You know that, right?" 

"It isn't that I was worried about him getting to me," Mandy said, gnawing on her bottom lip. "He wasn't drunk, so I was probably safe. I just never want to go in that house again. I feel like if I do, I'll never leave." At least Mickey had some happier times there, if his memories ever came back. She'd had Lip. And Kenyatta. Both of which she'd be happy to forget. 

"Nah." Mickey knew that she didn't necessarily mean it literally, but he still wanted to express the sentiment. "I'd come and get you." He hesitated. "You gonna tell Ian where we went?" 

"Oh, hell, no," Mandy said, shaking her head. "I'm not going near that conversation with a ten-foot pole. But you know you gotta tell him, right?" She met Mickey's gaze and held it. "You need to tell him, even though it's gonna be ugly as fuck when you do." 

Mickey nearly rolled his eyes, but he knew she was right. If Terry became even more of a loose cannon because of this encounter, Ian would probably need to know.

"Well, we haven't had a fight in a few days, so why the fuck not," he said darkly. "You want me to wait until you're not there?"

"If you want me to be there, I can be, but...." Mandy's guard was already coming back up, the set of the jaw back as well as the pulled-down corners of her lips. "I should probably not stick around here too long. I should get back tonight." 

"Nah, you don't want to be there," Mickey said. "That's why I gave you the out."

They stopped at the gate, in front of the Gallagher house. 

"You sure you gotta get back tonight?" He wasn't going to push if she said yes, but he wanted the option to be out there. "At least stay for supper. I won't fight with Ian until after you leave and Deb's making tacos." 

Mandy wanted to say yes, it was written all over her face. But after a second, she shook her head. 

"I can't. It's better that I just head back. I've probably been gone too long already so if I don't go back soon, it could be bad. Haven't even turned on my phone, that way I can say I didn't get any messages." 

Mickey looked like he wanted to say something else, but he decided not to. "Well, come in and say goodbye to Ian, at least. I'll pack you some lunch for the road. You still like jam and nutella?" 

"Yeah. I do. I think I'd like some time alone with Ian while you get that ready, if that's okay?" Mandy was asking but not _really_ asking. "I spent all morning with you, didn't get any time to talk shit with him." 

"Yeah. You got it." 

Mickey held the gate open for her.

Mandy gave him a tiny, lopsided smile and went inside. When she called out for Ian, she followed the sound of his voice to the bedroom that he was now apparently sharing with Mickey again.

"Hey." She hung back in the door frame. "I'm gonna go, soon. Just wanted to check in really quick. We haven't really gotten to talk."

If asked, Ian would say he'd been busy doing stuff while Mickey and Mandy were gone, but in reality after swinging by to see Lip, he'd been sitting on the bed wasting time playing some stupid app game waiting for them to come back. 

"Hey," he said, sitting up straighter and swinging his legs over the side of the bed to make room if she wanted to sit. "You gotta go? Already?"

Mandy accepted the invitation and came to sit next to him, although she stayed right on the edge, hands braced next to her as if she might get back up at any moment.

"Yeah, I need to get back. I have some stuff I gotta do. And, you know. There's only so much Mickey a girl can take." 

"Probably why he went gay," Ian offered, smiling a little. "I wish you could stay, though. I wish you'd just... come back. Maybe when Mickey and I get our own place you could crash with us for a while and we could help you find a job here." 

Mandy gave a noncommittal shrug. "Yeah, maybe." 

There wasn't any point in arguing about it. She didn't see it happening any time soon, but the offer was kind. "Mickey mentioned that too, you know. You guys getting a place. I think that'll be really good for you. He seems to want to, like... fix a place up. I didn't even know he liked doing that kind of shit."

"Really?" 

Ian knew better than to even try to hide the optimism in his voice. It would have been impossible plus Mandy knew him so well that she'd know exactly how he felt even if she wasn't sitting right in front of him. "He said that? About us getting a place together? I really, _really_ want to. I think the sooner we start actually having a life, the sooner Mickey can get settled. And maybe then his memory will come back."

"Yeah, I know you really want to, you goof." Mandy couldn't help but smile at his reaction. "God knows why, he's a fucking slob, but you picked him." 

Her smile subsided a little. "I know things have been kind of all over the place for you guys. And, like. You're not out of the woods yet. So I just want you to keep being patient and like, honest with him. He needs to know shit, even if some of it... really kinda sucks."

Of course Ian had known that Mickey and Mandy would talk about him, about his relationship with Mickey. And he wasn't surprised that him telling Mickey the things he couldn't remember had come up. 

"I know. I know he needs to know, but... what am I supposed to do? Tell him everything at once? There was some shit, some... really heavy shit that _I_ should have been the one to tell him, but instead he called someone else to hear it. It's hard to find a balance between filling him in and overwhelming him. Plus, on paper, we look like two fucking idiots together. He needs more time to just be with me and see why he married me, otherwise he's going to hear all of the shit and just think it's too much to handle and walk away." 

"Ian, Mickey should've been overwhelmed and walked away like, twenty-five times by now. You get that, right? And I don't mean just since the accident. A lot of terrible shit has happened to you guys. If he was gonna bail, he definitely would've done it already." Mandy felt a rush of fondness for both of them. "Give him some credit. He's almost as stubborn as you. He never knows when to quit." 

"Would you want to wake up with no memory and find out that you're married to some dude who's bipolar and still lives at home with his siblings?" Ian challenged. "He never walked away before because he loved me. But he doesn't love me now, not yet."

"I don't know, does the bipolar guy love me and treat me right?" Mandy pointedly raised her eyebrows at him. "Don't underestimate that shit. You know where we came from."

Ian sighed, reached a foot over to knock against hers. 

"Okay, okay. Point taken. If you're saying I should do better, I'll do better. You two have a nice time together?" 

She shrugged a little. "We had an okay time. It was nice to talk to him, I guess. I'm sure he's gonna tell you all about it."

“I don't know how much he'll tell me,” Ian said. “Sometimes I can't tell if he's really letting me in. I don't know if it's his way of getting to me for not telling him everything or if he just doesn't trust me yet."

"Well, this morning he finally told me about... where Yevgeny came from,” Mandy admitted, feeling a little uncomfortable even saying it. How many years had Ian kept that one to himself? He obviously hadn’t wanted her to know. Neither of them had. “He had never told me that before. And I don't think he would've, if he remembered it, even though I'm his sister and he trusts me. Obviously he's not subtle when something's bothering him, but he's not always great at explaining what it is." 

"He told you about that?" For a second, Ian could come up with nothing else to say. She was right; as far as he knew, Mickey had never planned to tell anyone what had happened that day, not even Mandy. He wasn't sure how he felt about Mickey telling her now, but there was no point in getting into that. 

Mandy shrugged, glancing over at him. "He does have something to tell you. He promised that he would, so, you know. I think he will."

"He has something to tell me?" Ian echoed. "How bad is it?"

"Listen, I'm not... getting in the middle of this. Okay? Just... talk to him. It sounds cheesy and whatever but, like. I want you guys to get your shit together."

"Not getting in the middle, huh?" Ian asked, raising his eyebrows though it was nowhere near as intimidating as when Mickey did it. "That means it's bad. Got it. Great." 

She nudged him. "If you get divorced, you know he's going to do something stupid like rob a bank because he can't deal with his feelings. And I don't do prison visits, I had enough of that shit when my mom dragged us up to see Terry. So figure it out." 

Ian got what she was saying but even just hearing the word 'divorce' made his stomach upset. They were still fucking newlyweds. 

"If we get divorced, it'll be because _he_ wants to, so it'll be me you'll be refusing to visit in prison. But yeah, yeah. I'll try to figure shit out. You sure you won't stay?"

"I can't. I'm sorry. Next time I'll try and come for like, a whole weekend or something. Maybe I'll even get to see your new place." She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Walk me out? Mickey's making me lunch even though I just ate my body-weight at breakfast." 

Ian stood up and pulled Mandy up and, before she could step away, tugged her into a hug. As far as he knew, he might be the only person – other than Mickey – she'd permit to do that anymore. 

"I'm holding you to it. The weekend thing. As soon as we get a place, you're coming back." 

Mandy held onto him tightly. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, it felt like they were kids again, like he would always be around even if he wasn't her real boyfriend. He smelled familiar, and she didn't want to pull away.

"I'll come back," she promised. "Take care of my brother. He's an idiot but he needs you." 

"I'm trying." 

Ian's embrace was just as snug, and his throat was a little tight with emotion, both because he was going to miss her and because of what she was asking of him. 

"Okay, c'mon," she said. "Let's get downstairs before he comes up demanding to know why we never stop bitching about him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After you write dialogue for Terry Milkovich, you feel like you have to go rinse your mouth out. I would assume, anyway; I made Happy_schmuell do that part (and we're still friends, even). Also, the show is super unclear/inconsistent about what happened to Mickey and Mandy's mom, so we took some liberties. We're almost halfway through, team!


	10. The Present's Nothing Without It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the past is the past;  
> Then again, the present's nothing without it.  
>  \--"Love You So Bad", Ezra Furman

When Mandy had gone - brown paper bag filled with sandwiches, fruit, and assorted snacks clutched in her hands - Mickey knew that there was no point in putting off telling Ian where they'd gone that morning. He could tell by the way that Ian had been glancing at him throughout their goodbyes that Mandy had mentioned something, and he figured that it was only a matter of time before he asked the question. Might as well get out ahead of it.

Mickey didn't think that there was anyone home right now, but in this house, that could always change at any moment, so he led the way upstairs to their room, knowing that Ian would follow. 

When they were inside, he pushed the door shut and said without preamble: "We went by the house this morning. I wanted to know if Terry was in the joint, or what." Once it was out, it felt a little anticlimactic. Mickey scratched at his nose, then shrugged and said what was probably the grossest oversimplification of what had transpired: "He's not."

At first, Ian didn't follow. When he heard 'the house' he thought of his house, this house, _their_ house. But in the next breath, he understood. And one second after that he was fighting to keep his cool. 

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, Mick. I mean, you _better_ be fucking kidding me. Because I know, after everything I've told you and after the, what, ten million times I've said not to go there, you wouldn't be stupid enough to just swing by on a whim without a gun and with Mandy along, no less."

"Calm down, Ian. Jesus.” Mickey had seen this switch flip so often in Ian recently that his anger didn't even rile Mickey up in turn, not at first. "I just wanted to know why he would threaten to kill me eighty times and then suddenly just fucking disappear. I didn't want to keep worrying about him sneaking the fuck up on me. I had to know for sure. And I didn't make Mandy come. You know I can't make Mandy do anything."

"You don't get to tell me to calm down about this, Mickey,” Ian snapped. “Not a chance. And if you say it again, I actually might hit you this time." 

As it was, Ian walked to the far corner of the room to put some breathing room between them, not that the room was really even big enough for that. 

"So, what happened? Did he invite you in for a beer and politely answer all of your questions? Offer a belated wedding present?"

Mickey kind of wished Ian _would_ hit him. That was the kind of fight he knew how to have.

"Yeah, yeah, he was father of the year. Just his usual shit.” He knew better than to give Ian time to get a word in. "He called in a favour with the cartel, apparently. To get them off my ass. You know, so when your magical dick spell miraculously breaks and I go running back to that shithole, I'll owe him one."

For a second - for just a second - Ian was too surprised to be angry. 

"How the fuck did your dad manage to call off a cartel?" 

Mickey raised his eyebrows. "My dad's worked for the cartels my whole life. Longer. He used to do shit all the time to get himself into their good graces. He always thought they should owe him, not the other way around."

That was the secondary issue anyway, Ian thought. "I can't believe you went there. I - don't even know what to say to you. And don't give me any bullshit about knowing how to deal with him because you _don't,_ not now. He wants to kill you. He's _tried_ to kill you. Many times. But I guess none of that matters because you had to show him you're a big boy and walk up and knock on his door. And you didn't even fucking text! What, you think when he shoots you on his porch or beats you to death he's going to call me and let me claim the body? You'll just disappear and I'll never fucking know." 

Mickey abruptly realized that, as much as he was angry, Ian was also afraid. Mickey got that, sure, but he also thought that Ian wasn't exactly giving him much credit. The fact that Mandy had said much the same as Ian was something he had apparently decided to ignore.

"Hey. Look. You might think that this recent shit is my dad ramping up being an asshole, but it's not. He's _always been like this_. Why the fuck do you think my mom disappeared? I can survive fucking - Hurricane Terry, alright? That's one of the first things I ever learned to do. Don't talk to me like I'm fucking six and I don't get it. Did I never fucking tell you anything about growing up? Really?" 

Ian shook his head. "I can't decide if you're stubborn or just a complete idiot or both." 

Mickey's explanation, his assurances that he knew what he was doing, did nothing to slow Ian's anger. Maybe once he had been blasé about the threat that Terry could pose, but too much had happened – too much Mickey _almost dying_ had happened – for him to be that way now.

"How many times when you were a kid did he try to kill you? How many times did he actively seek you out, not to beat you senseless but to actually kill you? Because since the first time he caught us together, we might actually need two hands to count the number of times he's done that. You remember Terry the asshole, the abusive, drunk bastard. But you _don't remember_ Terry who really and truly tried to kill you. There's no way of 'handling' him shooting you in the fucking face just for showing up. I don't know why you don't fucking get that."

"I don't know why _you_ don't fucking get that I don't need you to tell me what my dad is like or to try and protect me. Didn't you tell me that you went to him for _advice_ on how to get by in prison? As if _that_ isn't the dumbest shit I've ever heard?" Mickey was done with this, done with explaining what was, in his mind, a perfectly rational decision. "I didn't go there to kill him, I went there because I was tired of just waiting for him to show up. I was being fucking - proactive. I'm fuckin' sorry, okay? I get that you're pissed. But you need to get off my ass."

Ian stepped back closer to Mickey so that could look at him, _really_ look at him, holding eye contact in a way they usually only did when they were seconds away from either kicking the shit out of each other or angry fucking. 

"Why didn't you call me first, then?" he asked. "Why didn't you call me or text me for me to come along? Why didn't you stop by here to grab your gun? If you knew what you were getting into, if you know so damn much about what Terry is like now, why didn't you actually go prepared? You took fucking _Mandy,_ who probably hasn't even held a gun in years. How the hell was she going to back you up? Or was she just there so there would be a witness to let me know you're fucking dead if Terry decided to do the job there and then?"

"You know why I didn't call you," Mickey said, standing his ground. "This shit. I'm sick of fighting with you and we do it all the goddamned time. We were having a fucking - good few days it was easier to go, and tell you after." He didn't comment on the part about taking Mandy; he was already regretting that he had done that, and not because she wouldn't have been good backup. 

"Oh, yeah. Poor Mickey, whose husband gives him so much shit," Ian snapped. "Your husband _doesn't want you dead._ Do you seriously not understand that? What the fuck would I have done - would Mandy have done - if he had killed you? You're so fucking selfish, Mickey." 

Ian shoulder-shoved his way past Mickey (on Mickey's good arm, of course), pulled the door open, and headed for the stairs. 

Mickey let him go, mostly because he didn't have anything further to say that had not already been said. Ian couldn't be reasoned with in this state anyway - or ever, Mickey thought, rather uncharitably. 

Because he had been up early to take Mandy for breakfast, he took the opportunity with a quiet house to have a smoke (with the window cracked - not something he used to bother with, but now there was Franny in the house) and lay down on the bed for a quick nap. As usual lately, he was out like a light almost the second his head hit the pillow.

\--

Mickey awoke a couple of hours later with a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt disoriented, and he reached up to rub his eyes, as though clearing his bleary vision might help. As he did, the sinister, murky things that he had been dreaming of crystallized, and he became aware of a series of memories in quick succession: 

Ian thinking that Mickey had killed their P.O., and;

Learning that they wouldn't have to testify against each other if they were married, and;

Ian walking away from the counter at city hall, and;

Ian falling down the steps outside.

Everything in between came into focus too, the way they had argued and fallen apart. Mickey felt blindsided by it at the same time as he felt a dull sense of realization: of course they had fought about getting married. They fought about _everything_. 

He got up, stumbling to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. He avoided his own gaze in the mirror.

Ian was stretched out on the couch when Mickey came downstairs, lazily flipping through channels, a crumb-covered plate resting on his stomach. When he saw Mickey, he picked up the plate and scooted into a seated position. 

"Hey," he said, speaking softly and a little tentatively. 

He felt a little bad for the fight. He wanted Mickey to understand why he'd been so upset, to try and do justice that cold shot of straight-up terror at the thought that Mickey could have died that morning and Ian wouldn't have been there, to explain that finding his wrecked car had been the worst experience of his life - hands down - and he'd lost sleep almost nightly with worries it could happen again, that Mickey would need him and he wouldn't be there. 

But what he said was, "I came to get you for lunch but you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you. You want a Hot Pocket?"

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He _did not_ want to do this. But he couldn't pretend that everything was normal. There was nothing to do but pick at the scab and open up the wound again, the one that was never more than a few days from the last time they'd reopened it. 

It was different from earlier. Now he didn't really want to look at Ian, because he didn't want to look at whatever expression he would have that wasn't anger. Mickey could do anger. Everything else was impossible to do with this person that he knew, but didn't know. That he half-recognized. 

"Did you even want to marry me?"

"What?" Slowly, eyes on Mickey, Ian put the plate on the coffee table and stood up. He had no idea what had prompted Mickey to ask that question. "Mickey, I - of course I wanted to marry you. That was the..." 

He wasn't used to saying things like this. 

"That was the happiest day of my life." 

"Yeah?" Mickey asked. A terrible handful of seconds passed in silence. It was almost unbearable. "Because you didn't seem real sure at the time." 

Mickey wasn't even sure how to assign a name to what he was feeling. Because he didn't have complete context for the memories that he had, he couldn't pick through the tangle of emotions inside of him with any hope of accuracy. He had never been great at talking about his feelings, and now he couldn't even figure out what they were. 

"You didn't fucking fall." This seemed doable, at least: Explaining to Ian what he knew. "When you broke your leg. I hit you because you ditched me at the altar."

Ian ran a hand down over his face, suddenly feeling so fucking weary that he didn't know if he could even hold his head up. Just once it would be nice if Mickey remembered something _good._

It wasn't exactly the altar, he almost said. But that wouldn't help.

"You're right. But it wasn't that I didn't _want_ to marry you. The first time we got engaged was this big rush. And when it came down to it, I got too nervous. And for once you didn't just... go easy on me. I had to pull my shit together, and I did. You wanna... sit down? So we can talk about it?"

Mickey didn't move.

"I didn't just go easy on you," he echoed. "Yeah. I lost my shit and you felt bad that you bailed." He had been waiting and waiting, he realized now, for some sign that this all made sense. And it was never going to. "Everyone keeps making cracks about me planning the wedding. Is that because I was the only one that wanted it?"

Ian didn’t know what to say for a moment. "I didn't marry you because I felt bad, Mick." 

Mickey may not have been interested in sitting but Ian had to. He felt like a thousand-pound weight had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders. 

"You've seen the pictures. Take a look at my face in any single one of them and tell me I didn't want to be there." 

"Fuck the pictures. I know what I know." It had been a long time since Mickey had felt able to say that, and mean it. "You were gonna marry me because you thought I killed someone and you wouldn't be able to testify against me. Did you fuckin' think that you owed me for when I went to prison for you? Did you think that was gonna make us even?"

Ian couldn’t help it; he snapped. "You're only remembering _half_ of it, but you're judging _all_ of it on that half. This is what you've done throughout all of this! You get back partial memories and decide everything must have been bad. _"_

The one thing - the _one_ thing - that Ian had thought Mickey believed, regardless of what he remembered or what he was unsure of, was that they had loved each other before the accident. That they'd loved each other and had gotten married. If Mickey wasn't even sure of that...

"I don't know if you don't remember this part or if you're just ignoring it so you can blame me for something else going wrong, but you thought I killed the P.O., too. You went to your dad for advice and _his_ friends told you to marry me to protect me, too. We both went into it half-cocked. I was just the one who needed to make sure it was the right thing to do. Which it was. _I married you because I love you._ Jesus, Mickey. If I only did it because I felt bad, this accident would have been my Get Out Of Jail Free card. But have I bolted? No. Because you're my _husband._ Who I _want_ to be married to."

"You decided it was the right thing to do because I was going to break up with you if you didn't." Mickey was done arguing, just completely sick of it. Maybe Ian was right, he was only judging it on the bad, but why was there _so much bad_? 

"That isn't how it was, Mick." Ian almost sounded resigned. It was like Mickey had already made up his mind about how Ian had felt. 

"That’s how it looks from here,” Mickey said. “Fuck me, man; I need some room to breathe. I _need_ to figure some things out for myself. Figure _myself_ out for myself. That isn’t fuckin’ happening right now, while I’m here." 

"What does that even mean?" Ian demanded. He felt like the ground was starting to crumble at the edges. "Come on, just sit down and let me tell you exactly how it all went. I know the memories that have come back haven't been good, but... can you really look back on the last few weeks and have any doubt _at all_ that I want to be married to you?"

"I don't know," Mickey told him, and it was honest. "And I don't know if I want to be married to you. I thought I was going to remember everything by now. But I don't. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, but I know it's not like this. Not you and me yelling at each other, not you making excuses, or _me_ making fucking excuses for shit that happened."

"I'm not making excuses." Ian's voice was softer because Mickey's words had cut deep. "How can you not know? How can you not know that I love you, that I want to be married to you? What else can I do? You told me you wanted to move forward together, you told me I was part of those plans. You - we fucking slept together, Mick. What was that, just a fuck?"

Mickey didn't respond directly to Ian's question, looking away instead. He knew Ian was hurt but it was hard to find empathy and express it, hard to work through anything at all other than the leaden ball of emotions in the pit of his own stomach. 

"I don't know what I want, or what I need right now, other than some peace and fucking quiet," he said, at last. "Do you get that? I'm sick of this, Ian. I'm sick of always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe I need to be by myself for a while. Maybe I just need some space.” He paused, and his voice on the other side of it came out quieter, but more strained than he had sounded in a long time. “Just a fuckin’ minute to – be alone." 

Ian closed his eyes. 

"Mick - please. I'll give you some space, okay? You can have the room again. You'll be going back to work soon, and I can try not to hover. This is your _home._ This is where you need to be to get better."

"You shouldn't have to try not to hover, man.” Mickey sounded – maybe sad, more than anything. “You're not getting what you need out of this, either. Every time I remember something shitty, you gotta deal with it. You've gotta be sick of this, too."

"No," Ian said, almost before Mickey was finished speaking. "I'm not sick of it. I wish you'd have some good memories, I wish you'd have a little more faith in me. But when the alternative is not having you at all, then..."

Mickey hunched up his shoulders and folded his arms, not comfortable. He didn't know for sure that he was making the right decision, but he knew that the alternative wasn't working - for either of them.

"I gotta go. At least for a little while. If my memories don't come back, then... maybe for longer."

Ian shrugged, suddenly feeling numb, arms and legs almost too heavy to move. 

"Please, Mick. I'm - I'm begging you, here. Don't go."

"I have to, Ian.” Now that he had said it out loud, he could feel how much he needed to do it. It took up so much space in him that Mickey didn’t know how Ian couldn’t see it. “I'm not gonna say I'm sorry, because I'm not. I’m sorry this is making you feel like shit, I guess, but I gotta rip off this fuckin’ bandaid. Whatever this is, it's not a real relationship. It's - just a fuckin' ghost version of whatever was there before. There's no way I can be as invested as you and that's why it's not working."

"Fuck you," Ian said softly, stung. How could Mickey think they didn’t have a real relationship?

Mickey acted like Ian hadn’t spoken, because what else could he do? "I'm gonna call around, stay in a motel for a couple nights, see if I can find an apartment. You gotta give me some time."

Ian spotted and picked up a pack of cigarettes on the table, lighting one up. They weren't his but if someone was stupid enough to leave smokes laying around the Gallagher house, they became fair game. 

"Motel, huh?" he asked, not looking at Mickey now. It fucking _hurt,_ just looking at him. "How are you paying for that motel?" He knew it wasn't fair, that the money that they had in their account came from both his job _and_ Mickey's but Mickey hadn't worked for a while, now, and it was no secret Ian's job paid more, was the one with the benefits. Under normal circumstances, it wasn't something Ian even thought of beyond being grateful they could go to the doctor. But right now, it was the only ammunition he had to fire back in return for the rapid-forming hole in the center of his chest. 

The soft 'ha' sound that Mickey made wasn't really a laugh. "So that's how we're gonna play this, huh? Alright. Don't worry about it, I'm not gonna touch your fuckin' money." 

He would let Ian stew on that, he figured. Mickey had debts he could collect on, if he had to, and he could make money quickly - again, if he had to. He wasn't big on the idea of violating his parole, but he wasn't about to sleep in a bus shelter. "I'm gonna go pack my shit."

"You can use the money," Ian said, getting back up and heading for the kitchen. "If you look online you can see which deposits were yours. Password is 'fuckyou', all one word. Your idea."

He stepped back just long enough to grab the cigarettes - this was shaping up to be a full-pack afternoon - before going into the kitchen, straight to the fridge where he pulled out a beer and cracked it open. At least, he figured as he pulled out his phone, it wouldn't take long to be so drunk that he might not care as much that his husband was walking out on him. 

He texted Lip just three words: _He's leaving me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Happy_schmuell asked me why on earth I would spread this fight over two chapters and leave everyone hanging like this and the answer is that I'm a bad person, I guess. Lmao. The next chapter is longer and it just seemed like a good place to split it up rather than having one super-long mutant chapter. That said, we're getting more Lip and Mandy soon so, something to look forward to? And, on that note, would anyone read a standalone Lip ficlet set in this 'verse? I have a lot of feelings about Lip and he does a lot of brotherly heavy lifting in this story.


	11. Change Who I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t give you what you need  
> And I’m so tired that I can’t breathe  
> And I don’t know if you can see  
> But my ship is going down  
> And I’ve tried my best to be a man  
> So I’ll set you free while I still can  
> ‘Cause I can’t seem to change who I am.  
>  \--“Let Me Leave”, Marc Broussard

Lip was getting ready to leave work when his phone buzzed in his pocket and he saw the text. His first thought, which he thought he probably ought to feel guilty about, was that it wasn't great timing. He was supposed to go home and take over with Fred because Tami had a thing with her sister that night, and he had been looking forward to some down time.

Nevertheless, he sent a text to Tami letting her know about the change of plans and then texted Ian back:

_I'm coming over._

He couldn't say that he was entirely surprised about any of this, he thought, as he took a shortcut through less-busy residential streets on his way to the house. Ian and Mickey had been doing this for years, hot-and-heavy when things were going well and then, in the next breath, catastrophically falling apart. He had thought that they were finally on an even keel for a while after the wedding, but then, of course, Mickey had had his run-in with the cartel and everything was fucked again.

He couldn't imagine that Ian was handling this well at all, now that his nightmare since the accident was coming true. 

When he arrived at the house and came inside, it was deceptively quiet. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. 

"Ian?"

"Kitchen," Ian's voice called back. 

He was sitting on the counter, two empty cans crumpled near the sink and one yet to be popped open beside him. He hadn't asked Lip to come and hadn’t checked his texts, but he wasn't surprised to see him. 

"You come to take me out tonight?" he asked. "Now that I'm a single man again?" 

Lip's eyes tracked to the empty beer cans at once, for a tenth of a second, then he met Ian's gaze.

"You sure that's a good idea?" He didn't specify if he meant drinking or going out tonight, although the question probably applied to either. 

"I think that I am being kicked to the curb by my _selfish bastard of a husband,"_ Ian replied, tilting his head and raising his voice so that it would carry up the steps before returning to speaking normally. "So, yes, I do think this is a good idea." 

As if in defiance of what Lip was suggesting, Ian picked up the fresh beer, holding it as if on display, and popped the tab. 

Lip watched him, but didn’t comment on it. "Where's Mickey?" 

"He's upstairs. Packing his shit. Little bitch."

"You wanna go outside? Thought we weren't smoking in the house anymore with the kids around."

That, and Ian was obviously itching for a confrontation with Mickey, which Lip thought it best that they avoid, for everyone's sake. 

"You see any kids around here?" Ian asked, gesturing with a wide arc of his arms. "I know _I_ don't have any kids. I don't even have a husband anymore. And, get this - he isn't even sorry. Straight from his lips. He's not even sorry. But wait, there's more! If his memory doesn't come back, neither will he." 

He took another drink from his can then set it down on the counter with enough force that, even half-empty now, a little bit of beer sloshed out through the top. 

"I don't want to go outside anyway. My fucking house. He can move out _around_ me."

Lip thought, _well,_ _fuck_ , but knew better than to say it aloud. 

As it turned out, he didn't have to figure out whether it was worthwhile to keep trying to cajole Ian out of the house, because Mickey appeared on the stairs with a garbage bag in one hand and an old, torn backpack over one shoulder. When he and Lip made eye contact, Mickey looked away quickly. 

"Can't find my grey sweatshirt," he said. "If you see it, send me a text."

"Mickey," Ian said in a tone so congenial it could only be fake and coming from someone both already drunk and already pissed off. "I would love to text you if I find your sweatshirt." 

He hopped off of the counter so that he could look at him. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you? Just in case taking care of you and looking after you and cleaning your bullet holes and getting your goddamn red jello and fucking you in our bed hasn't been enough. It was so good of you to stick around and tell me your bullshit 'moving forward' plans until you don't need me anymore. So, please, tell me what else you want from me."

"If you think for one goddamned second you're going to convince me that all of this shit is my fault and just me being an asshole, you're fucked." Mickey had patches of colour in his cheeks, and he was obviously furious, but he started moving toward the door. "I didn't ask you to do any of that shit, and I definitely didn't ask to forget everything that fucking mattered or was important to me. But I'm tired of trying to fit back in where I don't fit. It ain't working. You know it, I know it." 

"Fuck off, you didn't try for shit." 

Ian drained the last of the beer and for a second looked as though he might throw the can at Mickey's head, but he opted for the sink instead. 

"All you've done is sit around bitching and moaning about how everything sucks and why the hell are you and I even together. You haven't been interested in the good stuff, and don't think I buy for a second that it's a coincidence you've only had bad memories come back. You decided day one you didn't want the good ones because you didn't want a reason to stick around in this shitty life you had with me." 

The counter was still between them but the energy coming off of Ian made it entirely plausible that he could vault it any second.

"Did you listen to one goddamned word the doctor said?” Mickey didn’t look like he was worried about Ian coming for him. If anything, he might welcome it. “I don't get to pick and choose how my fuckin' brain injury works, asshole."

"You promised,” Ian snapped out. “You promised me good times or bad times. So, I'll tell you this, Mick. You walk out now, you break that promise, don't come back. Even if your memory comes back, don't come here looking for me."

Mickey paused at the door when Ian issued his ultimatum. Lip thought he might toss his bags on the ground and get into it with Ian for real, but what he said instead was possibly worse. 

"Great. Have a nice life, Gallagher." 

Ian took a step back, as if Mickey's words had struck a physical blow. 

"Fuck you," he said softly, though there was plenty of warning there, too. "You're a fucking liar, you piece of shit. You fucking _promised."_

As quick as a runner off a starting gun, Ian went from totally still to full tilt, around the corner of the counter top.

There was a time when Mickey knew Ian better than almost anyone, but not anymore. Lip had seen Ian coming before he had even moved, and he was much faster off the hop than Mickey. The second he moved, Lip was in front of him, hands on him.

"Ian! _Hey._ No."

Lip had had arguments like this before – more than a few, if he was honest with himself – where neither party could come back from the things they were saying, or deescalate the situation even though they probably wanted to. He didn’t want Ian to do something that he would regret. 

"Mickey, get the fuck out of here, huh?" he said, and Mickey didn't need to be asked twice. He picked up his bags and went out the back door.

At first, Ian struggled against Lip with all of his might. But the beers were hitting him hard, the equivalent of at least five times their actual alcohol content since was on his meds, and he was uncoordinated enough that Lip, as strong as he was, was more than able to hold him back. 

"What the _fuck_ , Lip. You on his side now?" 

"No,” Lip said pointedly. “I'm on your side, dickhead." 

Ian fought until Mickey was out the door and gone from sight for a few seconds, then wrenched away from Lip, throwing as hard as he could the first thing he could get his hands on: a cake Debbie had made the night before, two thirds of which now decorated the sink, wall and cupboards. 

Lip ducked, though he needn't have bothered; even if it had been aimed at him, Ian was so messed up that he would never hit his target. 

"You wanna throw shit or break shit? Let's go outside." 

"Should break you," Ian replied. "This is not your business, Lip. If he wants to act like a piece of South Side trash and go back on his word, then I should get to put him in his place South Side style. So, fuck you for getting in my way." 

Rather than take up Lip's offer to go outside and break stuff, Ian shoved him away, hard.

Lip stumbled but didn't fall when Ian pushed him. Something in his jaw jumped and he looked more than a little annoyed, but he still didn't retaliate because it was easy to see that that was what Ian wanted. Heartbroken, he wanted to take it all out on Mickey, but in Mickey's absence, anyone else would do. 

"You know you can't knock him around right now. You told me yourself what the doctor said about that." Lip shrugged, for all intents and purposes easygoing, though he watched Ian like a hawk. "I personally don't give a shit if someone else wants to take a rip at him, but you'll feel like shit later if you do."

"Don't tell me how I'll feel. The only thing that will make me feel better is if I kick his ass back to the hospital. Maybe if I knock him out again, I'll get the real Mickey back the next time." 

It was too much, just too fucking _much_. It was like when Mickey had married Svetlana, only a thousand times worse. And the enormity of what Ian was feeling he was incapable of putting into words, did not remotely have the tools to deal with. 

"I'm not afraid to take you out to get to him. Just let me go." 

Ian didn't wait for a response, simply took a run at Lip, his intentions not to hurt him but to get past him, though he wasn't opposed at this point to fighting him if he had to. 

"Ian - " Lip shook his head, but then Ian was on him. 

It was readily apparent that Ian had been drinking. Lip hadn't had a knock-down, drag-out fight with him in a while, but Ian had always been agile, and sure of himself. Now he wasn't totally in control of his movements, letting rage and heartbreak drive him, and while it was a veritable onslaught of motion, Lip found that it wasn't that hard to out-think him. 

He managed to get a hold of him, and pinned his arms, catching Ian against his chest.

"Ian, fucking - cut it out. Just stop. If you still wanna kill him in the morning, I won't stop you. But you gotta knock it the fuck off right now."

"Fuck you," Ian spit out, fighting against Lip's grip. He said it again, a second time, trying to wriggle away. By the third time the words came out, most of the fight had gone out of him and he was sagging in Lip's arms more than being restrained by him. 

"Just let me go." 

There was still half a six-pack in the fridge. He could take that, go to bed and - 

"I gotta get out of here, Lip. Can I stay at yours?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, you're definitely staying with me." Lip knew better than to leave Ian alone. After a few seconds, when he was sure that Ian was done, he released him. 

"Come on," he said. "The guest room is all ready for you. You wanna just go to bed, or you wanna eat something?"

"I want... these." 

Ian went to the fridge and pulled out the remaining three beers, still joined together by the plastic rings. 

"And before you tell me no, it's either this or I find out if Monica was right and it _is_ possible to fly off the roof." He said it as if it was a joke but it wasn't. He had no fucking idea how he was going to face getting up the next day knowing everything had fallen apart. He wasn't sure how to face the next ten minutes, but the beer could at least help with that. 

"Don't joke about that shit. Not ever." Lip didn't sound angry, but he meant it. 

"You think I'm joking?"

Even drunk, Ian knew all about The List. The one he had to keep. The one that had the names and numbers of people to call if he felt like hurting himself. 

"Mickey's the first name on my list. But something tells me he'd be fucking fine with me jumping off the roof. Lucky you, you're number two." 

Even on his lowest days, he'd not needed the list yet. And he hated himself for needing it now. But Lip had Fred and even if his nephew was way too young to understand what was happening, he wasn't going to make him grow up listening to stories of Uncle Ian slitting his wrists in the kitchen. So, Lip needed to know he'd plummeted straight down into hide-the-knives territory. 

"I got you. Okay?" Lip knew about Ian's list, and he knew that he would have to keep a close eye on him for the next little while. But he also knew that if Ian was still well enough to ask for help, that was a good sign. 

And he knew better than to fight this particular battle with Ian over the beer, even though he didn't want it in his house.

"Alright. You can bring the beer, but you're gonna eat something before you pass out. We can get a pizza or something, if that's what you want."

"I'm not hungry, Lip. And a slice of pizza ain't gonna help shit."

"Come on." Lip tucked an arm around him, the way he had when they were kids and Ian was smaller than him. He gave him a tight squeeze around the shoulders and then released him. "Pizza's not gonna hurt, either. Especially if you're blind drunk and you need something to soak it up. Trust me. I'm the expert. You think seeing Fred is gonna make you feel better? I can keep him away from you for a while if you need."

"You know," Ian said, oddly touched that Lip would even offer. "I think I'd like to see him. I can save the rest of these - " He held up the beers. " - until after I spend some time with him." In his already-drunk state, to Ian it was a considerate move. "Guess I could eat some pizza, too." 

Mostly, he wanted to be alone, to forget, to think about something other than the fact that everything was fucked. But he'd made promises to his family, not just to Mickey, and he wasn't so drunk that he'd forgotten that. 

"Alright. I think that's a good move. You want me to carry those for you?" Lip didn't mention that Tami would be watching Ian like a hawk if she could tell he was drunk. He just wanted to encourage Ian to keep making the choice to take care of himself. 

"Nah, I got 'em." Ian shook his head. "But I won't drink them until Fred goes to bed. Can you grab my meds, though?" 

He added it almost as an afterthought but it was a deliberate decision. The last thing he cared about was those pills but, for now at least, he was still able to think about the effect it would have on his family if he went off of them. And there was Freddie and Franny to think about; Ian would lying if he said the decision wasn't mostly for them.

Lip went to the kitchen cupboard to collect the pill bottles that Ian kept on the top shelf, out of reach of little hands. "I know I've said this before, but you're his favourite uncle. Where'd you learn to be good with kids, huh?" 

"Guess I'm just a natural," he told Lip, starting to smile, though his face froze a second after. Everything he'd planned for his future - married to Mickey, raising a kid or maybe two together - was gone in what felt like a blink of an eye. 

"Let's, uh... go get that pizza," he said. What he really meant was: _let's go do what I have to do so I can finish those beers and forget all this shit for the night._

\--

Ian might not be at rock bottom - it was hard to top kidnapping - but he felt like he was scraping close to it. In the few days since Mickey had left, he'd been more drunk than sober. He was still taking his meds, but the truth was, if Lip or Debbie didn't remind him, he'd probably have forgotten to. After talking with his supervisor in one of his more clear-headed moments, he'd agreed to use his vacation time - it wasn't like he was going to need the time off to move into a new place with Mickey, as was his original plan - to avoid putting his job into jeopardy, though he couldn't bring himself to care much about that. Occasionally, he'd tell himself he was wallowing and marriages ended all the time, and he needed to pick himself up and get on with life. But so far, he'd not been able to do that. Most days, he didn't blame himself at all. Marriages ended, but not like this, and didn't he deserve time to mourn? 

That's what he'd decided, five days later, when he lay in his old bedroom in the Gallagher house, still in bed at nearly noon. Debbie had come up with his meds followed by Franny with toast for him. The toast was untouched but he'd washed his meds down with what was left in the can of beer he'd had by the bed from the night before. 

_Living the dream,_ he thought to himself as he reached for his phone when it buzzed. Probably Lip, he figured, checking up on him. Or maybe Mandy. He'd not talked to her at all since Mickey had left except for a drunken text saying she could tell her brother to fuck off. But the phone kept buzzing, so it wasn't a text, and he didn't recognize the number. He tossed the phone aside and was just dozing off when it buzzed to signal a voice mail. With a sigh, he dialed in, putting it on speakerphone so he wouldn't have to hold it. 

_"Mr. Gallagher, this is Gabrielle with Ascension Insurance calling about your recent claim for a Mr. Mickey Gallagher. We have been informed by the Health and Wellness Rehabilitation Center that his two physical therapy appointments this week have been canceled. This call is to inform you that if he cancels one more appointment he will forfeit his right to claim any future procedures or visits under this claim, as the appointments were canceled against doctor's orders. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at - "_

Sighing, Ian ended the call. _Fucking Mickey_. He knew why Mickey had done it, but it was still dumb as fuck. And fuck him anyway, because it was his own fault if he canceled the appointments and never got full use of his arm back again. What did Ian care? He rolled over to go back to sleep but then, with a louder sigh - even though no one else was around to appreciate it - he rolled back over and picked up his phone again, calling Mickey. 

When Mickey answered the phone, it was evident that he was at work. In the background, there was the general hum of crowds of people moving around, talking and laughing. The radio he usually wore chirped once and then went silent, as if Mickey had immediately muted it. He definitely wasn't in the security booth, watching the cameras, like the doctor had recommended in his return to work note. 

"Yeah," was all he said. He and Ian hadn't spoken since the day he had moved out, and he could already guess what this call was about. Truth be told, he had considered ignoring it, but there was a part of him that knew that he had to take Ian's calls - just in case Ian was calling because he was in real trouble. 

"You need to keep your appointments, bitch." Ian hadn't planned to be confrontational, but he was hungover, and even hearing one word in Mickey's voice cut through whatever walls he'd started to put up to protect himself. "If you miss one more, they won't cover anything down the line that you might need." 

A small part of Mickey relaxed when the sound of Ian's voice made it clear that he wasn't in crisis. A bigger part now felt a surge of annoyance, both with Ian for calling and with himself for picking up. 

"It's fine, Ian. I can use my arm okay. It's not my right hand anyway, and I don't use the left one for writing and shit." He glanced around, as though checking for eavesdroppers, although the crowd could not be less interested in what the mall cop was talking about on his phone.

"'Okay' isn't good enough. And it'll only get worse if you don't take care of it now." Ian was directly quoting the doctor that had told Mickey he had to go to physical therapy after Mickey's initial reaction to that had been less than favourable. 

"Besides, you made it pretty fucking clear how you feel about me using your money, so how is insurance any different?" Mickey demanded.

"It's different because I say it's different. You chose to leave so I'm not paying for shit for that. But you didn't choose the accident and you were still my husband then. So you're covered until the _doctor_ says you're better."

"Okay is good enough for me," Mickey said. "I'm not a surgeon, no one is ever gonna give a shit if I can't do some fine motor skill bullshit with my left hand. Is that gonna stop me from being a fuckin' mall cop? No, it's not." 

Mickey rubbed at his forehead. "Look, I'm not getting into some complicated situation where you think I'm entitled to some shit but not others for whatever dumb reasons. I don't want your insurance. I probably don't even qualify for it anymore anyway since we're technically separated and we don't live together. So." 

"You do qualify and you're going to fucking use it. So you can either stop being a fucking princess about this and use it or I can just come break your fucking arm and you can use medical assistance to cover the rehab from that." 

If Ian's head hadn't hurt when he'd woken up, it sure as hell was starting to now. It was like Mickey was _trying_ to make him feel more like shit with his 'we're separated' bullshit. Like Ian wasn't all too aware of that fact. 

"Look, I'm at work. I'm not gonna argue with you." There was a beat, and the almost audible sense of Mickey relenting. "I'll go to the minimum number of appointments until the doctor lets me off the hook. I don't wanna hear anything else about it. Okay?" 

"Yeah, I can hear you're at work. Following doctor's orders there, too, right?" Mickey wasn't the only one who could do sarcasm. "Once the doctor clears you, I don't give a shit what you do, so that's fine with me." 

"Yeah, well they weren't thrilled with the restrictions and what else am I gonna do? I don't actually hate this job and Larry's gonna be on my ass if I get fired." Mickey didn't know why he was bothering to get defensive, but he couldn't help it. 

"They have to put you on light duty if it's doctor's orders, Mick," Ian said. "It wouldn't kill the other guys there to take an extra round or two to the food court. We - I used to come and meet you there for lunch on my days off."

"They don't have to do anything they don't want to do,” Mickey said flatly. “I'm an ex-con, they can fire me and invent a reason. Is that it? Can I go back to work?" 

For an instant, Ian's voice had softened but the edge came back just as quickly. "Yeah, get back to work. Sorry I interrupted your day by trying to make sure you take care of yourself. I feel bad for whoever gets that job next." 

"Maybe I'll take care of myself for a while, huh?" 

Ian snorted. "Yeah, that'll be a first. Good luck with that." 

He didn't like the sound of his own voice, the way he wanted to be ugly to Mickey. It only made him feel more pathetic knowing nothing he said would even have an effect on him, that he couldn't hurt Mickey anywhere near how badly Mickey was hurting him. He wasn't proud that he wanted to - he still loved Mickey, _his_ Mickey - but this Mickey wasn't his anymore and Ian had no clue how to handle that other than, in true Gallagher form, beer and insults.

"Great."

Mickey knew that Ian was hurting - it didn't take a brain surgeon, even if he hadn't known him at least a little - but he couldn't change that. Maybe he should have known that _I need some space_ would invariably lead to a catastrophic fight and they’d stop speaking to one another, but he hadn’t. It made him not in the mood to be charitable. Still, he was completely sincere when he said, quickly:

"Take care of yourself."

Then he hung up, before Ian could snarl back at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have faith y'all, it's always darkest before the dawn. Super gentle reminder that if you're feeling like you didn't sign up for this level of drama and angst, that's okay - but we do read all the comments, and we, like all fanfiction writers, post our stories for fun and for free.


	12. If Only I Would Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I don't have to make this mistake,  
> And I don't have to stay this way;  
> If only I would wait.  
>  \--"Winter", Joshua Radin

_"My husband just left me."_

It was the perfect line, really, Ian had quickly found out. On Sunday - which was, he _thought_ , a couple of days ago - he had gotten Mickey's sweatshirt, the one he'd asked Ian to text about. It had fallen down behind the bed and Debbie had found it when she'd made Ian get out of bed long enough to change his sheets. Against all of his better judgment, without even really thinking, he'd pressed his face to the shirt and could still smell Mickey on it. And that had been the dam-break that had been building since Mickey had left. 

Ian had gotten out of bed, showered, and left the house. He hadn't been back since. The past forty-eight hours were a blur of loud music, half-dressed young men not much younger than Ian himself dancing on bars, and countless shots and drinks provided by much older men who had immediately sensed that Ian was looking for some kind of comfort. All he had to do was say that line, and the drinks flowed. And after a while, nearly numb, he began to enjoy the replies of, ' _Well, he must be a fucking idiot,_ ' and ' _Looks like you need a shoulder to cry on_ '. He knew that Sunday night he'd crashed on the couch in a swanky hotel suite while the much-older occupant had sex in a variety of ways with three much-younger guys from the club. 

He had no idea where he'd spent Monday night. 

He could remember doing one single line of coke, but other than that he'd turned down anything harder than alcohol, he was pretty sure. But he also hadn't brought his meds when he'd left the house so he was on day two of them slowly working out of his system. And he felt _good_. Free. Alive. Like Mickey _was_ a fucking idiot for leaving him. But, as the man whose house he was now at, surrounded by a party in full swing, said to him: Maybe he was better off without Mickey. No one had ever _really_ understood what it was like except Monica, and she was gone, and... 

It was hard to think. Maybe some sleep would - 

_\- Fuck_ , it was loud... His eyes were closed but he could hear so much noise. But it kind of sounded like it was coming from in his own head and - 

\- _"Yeah... Mick, that feels good..."_ But - no, wait. Whose couch was he on? That wasn't Mickey with his mouth on him, he didn't know who it was, only that he wanted him to stop, was shoving him away then - 

\- More voices. _"He's fucking heavier than he looks." "Jesus, don't let him puke in the car. Ah, for fuck's - "_ His throat burned, he could feel his stomach heaving, but as he twisted to lean over, he wasn't on a bed but hoisted between two people, jostled and nearly dropped. There was a car. _"We can drop him at the service entrance. There's a blind spot from the camera, won't pick up the license - "_

\- Fucking nightmare time. People - no, not real people... monsters. _Demons!_ Holding him down while he thrashed. But he wasn't strong enough and his head was filling up with noises and – 

  
\--

  
Mickey's new apartment was exactly the rat trap you would expect for someone who had to scrape together first and last in the span of a couple of weeks. The stove top didn't work, although that didn't really matter since most of his meals came out of the freezer and went into the microwave. A window had to be cracked all the time or else the air got a strange, stale smell, but he was on the ground floor so he'd already had to make a burglar bar out of a broken-off broom handle. He didn't own anything of value - just his rings, which he kept in a box in the closet, and his gun, which stayed next to his bed - but he wasn't about to make it easy for the type of thugs that he and his brothers had been to come in and fuck with his shit.

On a Tuesday evening, he was sitting at home after a day at work that had felt interminable. There was a distant, throbbing headache that was starting in his temple - it happened a lot now, when he was tired - and he was babysitting a beer that was starting to border on warm. His eyes were closed, and he was listening to some sports personalities yell at each other on ESPN. He only became aware that his phone was ringing after it had been going on for nearly fifteen seconds.

Fumbling for his phone, which had fallen behind a couch cushion, Mickey's eyebrows drew together when he saw the display: South Shore Hospital. 

He picked up. "Yeah?" 

Five minutes later, pulling on a jacket and washing down painkillers with the remains of his beer, Mickey thought that he should've known that this would happen. Of fucking course he was still Ian's emergency contact.

He considered calling Lip to go in his stead, but it was late. Instead, he figured, he would go and get the lay of the land at least. And maybe he kind of owed it to Ian anyway.

(He _definitely_ owed it to Ian anyway, but he tried not to think too hard about that.)

When he arrived at the hospital, he was too tired to deal with it when the nurse asked, "Gallagher? Are you his brother?"

"No," he said. "I'm his fuckin' - it's the 21st fuckin' century, lady. I'm his husband. Where the fuck is he?" 

She gave him a look, but directed him down the hall. 

There was a nurse in Ian's room when Mickey arrived, checking Ian's vitals, making notes in his chart. She looked up when Mickey entered. 

"Are you family?" she asked, rather sternly, making it already clear that if the answer was no, he would have to leave. 

"Why the fuck would I be here if I wasn't fuckin' family?"

The nurse showed no visible reaction to Mickey's reply; it was likely she had heard far worse. 

"I'm Mickey Gallagher, I'm his husband." It was surprisingly easy to say, despite everything. Mickey looked over at Ian in the bed, and maybe didn't do the greatest job of concealing how much seeing Ian like that got under his skin. He knew, once again without knowing how he knew, that he had seen Ian look like this before. Looking back at the nurse again, he asked, "What happened?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," she said. "I can tell you about your husband's condition since he arrived here a few hours ago but not what led up to it. Is he a frequent drug user? Has he been hospitalized before for alcohol-related purposes? And when was the last time you saw him?"

"Drug user?" Mickey knew that Ian barely drank coffee or beer, never mind touched hard drugs that would fuck with his meds. But he did recall, now that the question was out there, that Ian had told him about back when they'd first broken up, when he had gone AWOL from the military. "Fuck. He used to do that shit, but not anymore. He doesn't even really drink. It fucks with his medication. Has he been taking it? His meds for his bipolar? You can tell from the tests and shit, right?"

"He's bipolar? That explains a lot. I'll need the name of his primary care physician and his mental health provider who prescribes his bipolar medication." 

Mickey rubbed at his face, glancing back toward the bed again. "I talked to him on the phone a few days ago. He wasn't - fuckin' over the moon, or anything, but he wasn't like this."

The nurse made a couple of notes. 

"A few days ago." There was a weight to her words but again she otherwise showed no reaction. "Mr. Gallagher was dropped off here - literally dropped off, out of a car - barely conscious. When the staff found him and he was brought in, he was in what appeared to be a manic state and we had to sedate him. There were traces of cocaine in his system and his blood-alcohol level was... very high. Dangerously high. His wallet had no money or credit cards, so if he usually carries those you should contact your bank to close them. Luckily his ID was still inside along with his work badge and insurance card. That was how we got your contact information." She glanced back over her shoulder at the bed. "He's coming out of the sedation now, but it's important he stays calm. He'll likely be a little confused and not feeling well and we'll need to keep him at least overnight. If you have any more questions, I'll send the doctor in." 

Mickey gave her the names of Ian's doctors, figuring it was better if Ian got back on his meds sooner rather than later. He didn't appreciate the implication that she made - yes, they were separated, but that was besides the point; did every married couple talk every single day? - but Ian was waking up and it certainly wasn't worth getting into it when it was his own fault that Ian had dropped off the face of the earth and then reappeared here.

When the nurse left the room, Mickey approached the bed. There was a hard plastic chair next to it, and he pulled it up to sit down. There was no nice way to say it - Ian was coming off a 48-hour bender and he looked the part. Mickey thought about reaching for his hand, but didn't. If Ian remembered how furious he was with Mickey, he would no doubt not appreciate it.

"Hey." Mickey didn't know if Ian even knew he was there yet, but it couldn't hurt to try and talk to him. "You're in the hospital. You're, uh. You're okay."

Ian's eyes had been closed but the sound of the chair being pulled closer got his attention and, though it took a couple of seconds, he finally turned his head and tracked the movement with his eyes. His head was a fuzzy that he associated with meds but he couldn't remember what had led to him feeling that way. He didn't even realize he was in the hospital until Mickey said so, though he did have a foggy memory of a woman talking to him, maybe recently. 

His lips were dry but when he tried to lick them he found his mouth was nearly as dry, and it took a couple of attempts to speak. 

"...happened?" he finally got out. 

Mickey immediately reached for the plastic cup next to the bed. "I'm gonna get you some water. Okay? Just a second."

He tore the protective plastic off the cup, went into the adjoining bathroom, and filled the cup with water. When he came back, there was an awkward second or two while he tried to figure out the best way to do this. He ended up putting the cup down on the little tray table and helping Ian sit up just a little so that he could drink without spilling.

Ian managed a couple of small drinks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Bits and pieces of things were coming back to him, but only in fragments and not enough to paint a picture of what had brought him to the hospital. 

"The nurse said someone left you here a little while ago,” Mickey told him. “Sounds like you were pretty fucked up. And probably not on your meds. She's gonna get you some, though, so you can even out."

"What day is it?" Ian asked, trying hard to focus on his face because, in the sterile, white room, it was the only thing familiar that made sense. "What did I do?" If he was in the hospital, if Mickey was here with that serious face, it meant he'd done something bad again. At least this time he was pretty sure it hadn't been kidnapping. 

"It's Tuesday," Mickey replied, then added, for additional context: "Almost midnight."

He wondered if Ian had been going to work, and how long it had been since he had taken his medication, and whether he had spent a few days the way he had after their argument weeks ago now, when he hadn't been able to get out of bed.

"I don't know what you did. They called me because you were here, by yourself, all messed up, and I'm your emergency contact still. You didn't - you're not in trouble, or anything. Unless you did some illegal shit while you were on your bender and we don't know about it yet. You know, other than doing coke with strangers."

Ian brought a hand up to rub his eyes then saw for the first time that there was an IV in his arm and used the other hand instead. 

"Tuesday," he repeated, laying his head back on the pillow. For one second - one last blissful second - he didn't know why Mickey had said 'still', but then it hit him like a punch to the gut. "Right." He shifted his eyes away from Mickey to the board hanging on the wall across from the foot of the bed, the one listing his name and the name of the doctors and other staff who were on duty. He was surprised to hear about the drugs, but didn't think Mickey was lying. 

"Coke? I don't - " He tried to think but had no recollection of that. "I remember... Sunday?" The sweatshirt, the club, the music. The drinks. 

Sunday. Well, that wasn't great, but it could have been worse.

"Hey,” Mickey said. “For what it's worth - don't do coke with strangers anymore. Okay? I get it, it's good shit, but nowadays it gets laced with fentanyl sometimes and if you're with strangers, they're not gonna call you an ambulance if you OD."

Mickey knew that Ian wasn't likely to listen, but at least he could say that he had tried. 

"I don't - " Ian had tried to reply too vehemently and it scraped across his throat like sandpaper. "I don't do coke, Mickey. It's been years since I did it. I just - " He thought back at something tickling the edge of his memory. "I was at someone's house. I think. Why'd you come?"

That question stung a little, even though Mickey knew he deserved it.

"Why did I come? Because you were in trouble and they called me. What, you thought I was gonna let a call from the hospital go to voicemail, maybe check it tomorrow? Who the fuck else would they be calling me about?"

Ian closed his eyes and let his head rest on the pillow, fighting the urge to break down and cry. This wasn't the kind of life he wanted; he'd never planned to wake up again with little memory of previous day or night, didn't want to be coked-out and fucking around with strangers. But he knew what had driven him to do it, and he didn't want _that_ life, either. And all seeing him like this was going to do was make Mickey even more certain he wanted to walk away for good. 

"You coulda called Lip. Or Debbie." 

"It's late. Lip and Debbie have kids." 

And Mickey felt responsible, but he didn't say that. 

"If you don't want them to call me, then you probably gotta change your emergency contact." He could tell that his presence wasn't exactly fulfilling the nurse's request that Ian be kept calm. "Do you want me to leave? I can stay until - whenever. I can stay."

Ian wanted Mickey to stay. But more than that, he wanted _Mickey_ to want to stay, and he knew that he didn't. He'd come because he had to, because there was no one else at the moment who could. And he'd stay if Ian asked him to, but not because he was invested in Ian's health or recovery, not the way Ian needed him to be. 

"That's okay," he told him. "You don't have to stay. Just call Lip in the morning for me?"

"Yeah. Alright." 

Mickey wanted to ask if Ian was sure, but he didn't. Of course Ian didn't want him there. Mickey didn't blame him for not wanting to be seen when he was vulnerable, for not needing whatever little reassurance that Mickey could provide. 

"You, uh. Need anything? I can get something from, like. The vending machine. I think I saw those gross coconut chocolate bars you like."

Ian squeezed his eyes closed, taking in a slow, deep breath and then another. He wanted nothing more than to ask Mickey to stay, to crawl into the bed with him the way he had in times past when Ian had been a mess. Wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he really didn't do coke anymore, that he was honestly scared to death that his go-to had been to return to a way of life he'd never thought he'd revisit. 

But he didn't say or ask for any of those things. He simply finally opened his eyes and looked over at Mickey again. "Nah. I'm good." 

\--

The next morning, when Lip got the call from Mickey, it was still early. He stumbled around in the dark getting dressed and arrived at the hospital before visiting hours properly began. There was a machine that sold absolutely appalling coffee for a buck a cup, which Lip took advantage of for his own survival. He was sipping it and grimacing when he came into Ian's room. 

Luckily for him, Ian was already awake. That in itself made him relax, slightly. Mickey had assured him that Ian was fine, but still, it was different seeing it with his own eyes. 

Lip tipped his styrofoam cup at him.

"Mickey made it sound like you had a wild Vegas-style weekend. Was it fun, at least?"

"Do I look like it was fun?"   
  
Ian was awake, but he was in a _mood_. He still felt like shit after his two days of mayhem, and the short stop-and-start of his meds wasn't doing him any favours either. 

"You look like shit," Lip replied honestly. "So... yeah. There's a distinct possibility that it was fun."

"They won't let me go home, yet,” Ian told him. “I'm about ten minutes from just signing myself out against doctor's orders." He eyed Lip warily. "What exactly did Mickey tell you?" A little more of the past few days had come back to him, enough to be fine with never remembering all of it. 

Lip sat down in the vacant chair next to the bed. "He said you drank a little too much. That... they called him because someone, some stranger, dropped you off at the hospital. Is that true?" 

Ian nodded, lips pressed tightly together. 

"I - went out Sunday. To a club. It's, um. It's all fuzzy. I know I crashed in some guy's hotel room that night. Then Monday it was just... a series of other rooms? I think I went to another club, I don't really remember. I know I ended up at a party at someone's house, vaguely remember doing some coke. After that, it's a mess in my head. I don't remember being brought in but I guess they ditched me at the delivery entrance or something. Staff found my insurance card, and they told them to call Mickey." 

That was it, all that he knew. All that he was likely to remember, according to the doctors. If the whole damn thing wasn't Mickey's fault, he might feel a slight sympathy for his memory loss. 

"I gotta get out of here, Lip."

Lip recognized that sense of careening out of control but not really wanting to stop it; of thinking that you could deal with whatever fallout occurred tomorrow.

"Get out of here?" he asked. "Yeah, they're gonna let you out in a few hours. Just take it easy, okay? I gotta go to work in a bit, but I'll make sure Carl or Debbie is here when they let you out."

"No." As had been the case with Mickey the night before, Ian couldn't look Lip in the eye, was focused on the wall about three feet to Lip's right. "I don't just mean the hospital, though I can't wait to fucking leave. I mean this city, maybe the whole damn state. I gotta get as far away from all of this as I can or I'll never get my shit together." 

"Oh." Lip nodded, absorbing that. Maybe, on some level, he had been aware all along that that was what Ian had meant. And although he knew that Ian would have a hard time away from his family, he also could understand needing a clean break for a while. "So you're gonna leave town? You thought about where you're gonna go?"

"Not a clue. And I think maybe... maybe when I figure it out it'll be better if I don't tell anyone." 

Ian had slept well, oddly, after Mickey had left, a combination of exhaustion and sedation. But before five, he had been wide awake again and thinking about what would come next. 

"I just can't stay in the house, you know? And the whole South Side is..." He shook his head. There were memories on every corner, it seemed. He knew Lip would understand. 

Lip nodded. He knew better than to try and talk Ian out of it. Maybe a change of scenery would make all the difference. The South Side could feel claustrophobic sometimes, especially if you were avoiding someone in particular. 

"You're not gonna tell anyone where you're going? Makes it hard for me to mail you the drawings Fred does of him and 'Uncle Een'. They're, uh, mostly blobs and you have an orange scribble for hair, but I think he's got some real artistic promise."

Ian smiled, just a little. 

"You can text them. I'll keep in touch. I just need a break." He truly had no idea where he would go, or what he would do. But if he stayed put he knew he'd end up back in the hospital, or worse. "Listen, you can go ahead and go to work. I don't need anyone to come and get me. I don't really want anyone else to know about this." 

"Alright." Lip would let Ian make the call on that one. If he didn't want anyone to know, that was fair enough. "Maybe I'll stick around until I finish my truly shitty coffee." Lip regarded him over the rim of said coffee cup. "You promise you'll answer texts?" 

"Yeah," Ian said, nodding. "Yeah, I promise." 

He made eye contact with Lip briefly, not willing or able to put into words how much he was hurting and how much he did not want to have to leave, but wanting - _needing_ \- someone to know it, to communicate it somehow. 

"Every time - " His voice gave and he paused. "Every time I get my shit together, fucking Mickey Milkovich blows it to shit." First Mexico, now this. 

"Yeah." Lip couldn't argue with that. "But then you always get your shit together again." He didn't want Ian underestimating himself. He had been through a lot, and come out the other side. "Hey. We're Gallaghers, right? We get a shit-kicking, then we get back up and keep going. Not to go all Fiona on you." 

Ian did his best to force a small, pinched smile. 

"Think you and Tami and the kid could come for dinner tonight? I want to tell everyone together that I'm leaving."

He didn't want some big scene or a going away thing. He just wanted to pack a bag and go. But not without saying goodbye. 

"Yeah. Yeah, we'll, uh. We'll be there." 

Lip drained the remainder of his coffee, making a face, and tossed the cup in the trash can. 

"You need anything else from me, you call. Any time, alright? You're my kid brother. I got your back." 

"Are you gonna miss me? Going soft?" 

Ian was too close to the edge of breaking down, which he didn't want to do in front of Lip. So, it was time to inch away from the honest talk and revert to what was familiar. 

"Miss you? Fuck, no. Looking forward to some peace and quiet." Lip knew exactly how Ian was feeling. 

"I'll be around a couple more days,” Ian told him. “I need to stop in at work. They deserve better than me just disappearing. And I'll have to... get my money out. Probably just open a new account, leave Mickey's money in the joint one. If he hasn't taken it out already."

"You want to stay at my place instead of at the house over the next few days? Got a spot open." 

"No. No, thanks. I think I, like. Need to make my peace with leaving there." As he said it, Ian realized he didn't think he would ever be coming back, that his goodbye to the South Side and that house would be a final one, if things stayed the way they were. "Go on, get to work, man. I'll be okay. They'll be letting me out soon, one way or the other."

"Alright. You take care of yourself, alright?" Lip watched him for a second or two, then got up. If he knew what Ian was thinking, he didn't give any indication. "I'll see you tonight. Maybe I'll bring you a going away present."

"I don't need a present. It'll just be nice to have everyone together. Kev and V too, I think. They're family." The only person who wouldn't be there would be Fiona, but that was okay. Ian could always call her. "Hey. Thanks for not saying anything like I told you so."

"Yeah, well. I didn't wanna be right about that." 

Lip hoped that Ian knew, fundamentally, that Lip just wanted him to be happy, no matter what that looked like.

"I'll see ya." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have left some truly amazing comments! I'm always here for gallavich meta. Re: this chapter, it's a bit Ian-centric because Ian just needs a clean break for a minute. The next chapter will be a bit more Mickey-oriented.


	13. Gotta Leave It Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day by day by day, I wanna pick up the phone -   
> I gotta leave it alone,  
> I gotta leave it alone.  
>  \--"Miss You Now", Elliott Brood

"I think your couch has fleas." 

Mandy made her way into Mickey's kitchen, clad in a t-shirt about six sizes too big, rubbing her eyes. She held out her arm to show him what was clearly a mosquito bite and smiled crookedly so he would know she was joking. 

"Guess that's what you get for picking it up off a street corner. Please tell me you have coffee." 

His apartment was pretty shit, but having grown up in the Milkovich house, her standards were pretty low. Plus, Mickey's place didn't come with a shitty and abusive boyfriend-slash-pimp, so it was a step up from where she'd left the day before, this time for good, she hoped. It had taken her a couple of weeks after Mickey had told her about Ian's trip to the hospital (Ian still wasn't responding to any of her texts or calls) to finally work up the nerve to leave, but she had. And while she knew it would be a while before she stopped looking over her shoulder, it had also been more than evident that her brother had needed her. 

Not that he'd asked, of course. He was a Milkovich, after all. 

Mickey glanced over at Mandy in that t-shirt - Ian's t-shirt, one that was too big even for him, that he had gotten for free somewhere with a big local radio station logo on it - and thought about when he had been throwing all of his clothes into a garbage bag at the Gallagher house. Maybe he had taken that by accident. He wasn't going to tell her to stop wearing it, because it was just a t-shirt, but it made something tighten in his chest, and he busied himself with grabbing a chipped mug - one of only two mugs, total - out of the cupboard and pouring her a cup of coffee.

"We should go see if we can scam any bad-batch paint from the hardware store make this place look a little nicer," Mandy said. "If that old guy still works there I could probably convince him to give it for free if I show him my tits. That's how I got the stuff to fix my door after Iggy used it for target practice. You probably don't remember that, huh?"

"No, I don't remember that. One of the few perks of memory loss - not having valuable brain space taken up by Iggy doing dumb shit." Mickey took a sip of his own coffee and glanced around the kitchen. _Yeah, okay._ Maybe it could use some paint. He thought about the things he had considered doing, if he and Ian ever got a place. It had seemed kind of pointless to bother trying to undertake any big projects in this tiny shit-hole. But paint? Paint might be good. 

"We gotta get some of that patching shit, too," he added. "No point in painting over holes in the wall."

"Yeah, that too," Mandy agreed, taking the mug. "I know this isn't a forever kind of place but no harm in making a little nicer to live in, right?" 

She leaned against the counter, taking her time with the coffee and waking up. 

"You think maybe after we get the paint we could find some places I could put some applications in? I thought the food court at your mall might have some places looking." 

She hadn't actually said to Mickey that she was hoping to stick around instead of only visiting; this was her tentative way of letting him know, of, whether she realized it or not, getting his validation.

Mickey looked over at her, more awake and alert immediately. He didn't know how many times he and Ian had made it clear to Mandy that they would be there for her if she decided to come back - and surely it was even more than he remembered - but he knew that her decision to do so was a big deal. Mickey had always hung back a little more than Ian on coming swooping to Mandy's rescue; nobody in their family wanted to need help, not ever, and Mandy had stopped asking for his help with anything a long time ago.

Plus, Mickey had been on the receiving end of an ass-kicking from Mandy more than once growing up, and he knew that, crucially, she also didn't really _need_ his help. Once she decided that she was done with someone treating her like shit, she was good at making her feelings known.

"Yeah," he said, in one word showing that he wasn't about to make a huge deal out of it. "Yeah, I think that sandwich place has a 'help wanted' sign right now. You get a free sandwich every shift or something, I think. Plus, you'd get to see me most days and I am easily the least lame person who works there."

"You sure about that?" Mandy asked. Mickey's reaction was exactly what she'd been hoping for, and the tension at the corners of her mouth faded. "I always kind of liked those guys that sell the sunglasses at the kiosks in the middle of the mall. They're the trashy guys, you know? Not technically mall employees but free-lance or - well, whatever it's called. If they're still there you might have a run for your money on the least lame thing. I wouldn't mind a free sandwich, though." 

She'd had two separate jobs in food service and had been decent at both. Most importantly, it was money she could earn and still look at herself in the mirror after. 

"Oh, you think - you think those sunglasses hustlers are cooler than me?” Mickey demanded. “That kiosk is just product placement for Axe Body Spray and Adidas slides. The one guy has his mom pick him up at the back mall entrance because he's afraid of waiting outside after dark."

"I don't mind Axe," Mandy replied. "As long as it's not just covering up not showering. Which, by the way, I'm glad to see you at least remember that you do that, now. That is definitely a within-the-last-ten-years development." 

There had been nothing funny about Mickey's accident, nothing funny about his forgotten marriage falling apart or Ian being destroyed or Mickey having even more gunshot scars on his body. But she knew her brother needed more than worrying glances (and knew that, given the situation, Ian would not have had it in him to find any humour). 

Mickey flipped her off. So what if he had had other priorities as a teenage boy? 

"I need to hit Good Will, too,” Mandy said. “I've only got, like, two changes of clothes." 

"Yeah, yeah. I think Good Will is open until six now. We can go later, after we check out the job postings." Mickey had thought that her bag being so small was a sure indicator that she hadn't intended on staying. "I saw a decent dresser that someone left on the curb last night. There's a drawer that doesn't open right but I could probably fix that. If it's still there, we should grab it. You can keep your shit in there."

"Oh, I - I don't know if I need a dresser.” Mandy hesitated. “Where would you put it?"

"Swap out the TV stand," Mickey suggested. "It's just taking up space right now. At least with a dresser holding the TV up, it's being useful for storage. Plus we can paint it. And, like. Get some curtains or something. Make the living room nicer."

"Curtains, huh?" Mandy gave Mickey a closed-lipped smile. "Pretty sure it's mostly women who sell those. You might have to show your dick to get us a discount there." 

"I don't think showing my dick is gonna get me a discount on curtains so much as a parole violation." Mickey steadfastly ignored her smiling about curtains. Surely, after everything, he was entitled to pick out curtains that he liked. 

"They'd have to be able to find it first, so I think you're good." Mandy had never in her entire life, not once, wondered if other sisters joked about their brother's dicks.

Mickey flipped her off again. He should've known he was setting her up for that one.

Mandy had learned long ago not to make any kind of long-term plans or get her hopes up. But maybe - maybe - if things went okay there was something better than a crappy apartment in the future, for both of them. She finished her coffee and put the mug in the sink. 

"Okay. Just let me shower and I'll be good to go."

She was almost out of the kitchen when Mickey asked, almost without meaning to, "You, uh. Heard from Ian?" 

She turned around, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and slowly shook her head. "He, um. Doesn't talk to me anymore. Hasn't since you moved out. I've tried, but..." 

Mickey experienced a small surge of guilt. He knew that Ian’s radio silence was unequivocally his fault. Ian was Mandy's best friend, and it wasn’t like she had many. He wanted to apologize, but it was hard to figure out how - _sorry that I needed some time alone and he lumped you in with me?_ Or maybe, more generally (and more accurately), _sorry I’m an asshole?_

"Don't tell him you're living here," he suggested, that tightness in his chest back again. "That's definitely gonna make him less likely to text back." 

"I won't tell him if you don't want me to, but that's not going to make him more or less likely to text me." Mandy leaned against the frame of the doorway into the bathroom. "I think he knows I had to pick. At least for now. I'm not sure if he's hurt or trying to make it easier for me, but he knows."

She had that answer at the ready because she'd been thinking about it a lot. 

Mickey didn't say, _And you picked me?_ out loud, but from the look on his face, he might as well have. It wasn't that he didn't think he was worthy of the choice or any bullshit like that, but he knew how close Ian and Mandy were. The two of them had been in close contact even when Mandy and Mickey had not. 

"When did you last talk to him?" Mandy asked.

Mickey shrugged, looking down into his coffee cup. "Not since I saw him at the hospital. He didn't want me around so I left. He didn't say anything to me about leaving town, though. I heard about that from Debbie." 

"I tried to call him, after you told me about the hospital, but he wouldn't answer,” Mandy said. “It isn't like I just stopped giving a shit, right now I just can't..." 

She shrugged. It wasn't like she was choosing sides. She got why Mickey left and she _really_ got why Ian went off the rails. (After all, Kenyatta hadn't even been so much a rebound as a desperate and self-sabotaging attempt to _not think about Lip for one second, please.)_ Mickey just needed her more right now and sometimes family did have to come first. 

"It was probably hard to see him like that, in the hospital," she said, giving Mickey an opening if he wanted one. "Even in the situation you're in. I know you do care." 

"Yeah." Mickey's response was curt, but since he still was studiously not looking at her, that curtness conveyed meaning. "I care about him. I just need to do what I need to do, to get past this big fuckin' crater in the middle of my life." He rubbed his nose, frowning. "He doesn't get it. He thinks if I wanted it bad enough, I'd remember everything. But those are his fuckin' hangups, right? It's him who thinks that our life wasn't good enough, or whatever, or that _he_ wasn't good enough, so of course I wouldn't want it."

He shrugged, shoulders a little tense. "I don't even really know _what_ I wanted, before the crash. You can tell me that it was some kind of domestic setup with Ian and I believe that but I don't _know_ it. Not the way you're supposed to know shit like that."

He didn't know how else to explain it, but something in him wanted to try. Maybe if he could articulate it properly, it would feel less shitty. "I'm different than I remember but I don't remember the things that made me this way," he said. "It's like I'm in some shitty B-horror movie and I woke up and everyone wants me to live someone else's life. Some stranger's life. I don’t know. It’s fucked.”

Mandy hadn't expected Mickey to open up so much, but she let him talk. Most of what he said were things she could have guessed, anyway. Lips sucked in between her teeth, she didn't reply at first, wanting to be sure about what she said. 

"I... think it's been harder for him to turn the corner from hoping your memory comes back to planning a way to move forward if it doesn't. And I don't think he's realized that, yet. Making that choice is easier for you. You have no memories - or not many - so you don't have a life to say goodbye to. For Ian to really be okay with moving forward, he's gotta, like... I don't know, mourn? Even if you somehow would still end up together, he'd have to let go of what you had before. And he can't. Honestly, I don't think he ever would if you still lived there. And as much as it kills me to know how much he's hurting, I think you did the right thing." 

She looked truly and deeply pained, by the conversation, by the situation, by the fact the two people she loved most were hurting. 

"If your memory comes back, I can pretty much guarantee you'll be at his side in about a minute. But if it doesn't... well, there's no guarantee your future includes him, is there? And at some point you have to start your life again. The longer you stuck around, the worse it would have been."

Mickey made a soft, almost-derisive sound, but with no heat in it. "He told me not to come back even if my memories come back. You know, because I'm a fuckin' monster for not staying. Because I did this to him."

Mandy's eyes were soft in a way that they didn't often get. 

"He didn't mean that," she said, gently. "And if you needed him now, he'd come. He's just... he got his heart broken. But that's not your fault and he doesn't really think it is." What she wasn't saying was that she knew who Ian blamed for Mickey's accident because he'd told her. And it wasn't Mickey he was finding the fault with. 

Mickey knew that Mandy was right, that everything that she was saying was exactly on point, but it didn't make him feel much better having it articulated so well, or having his decision validated. If he had been lonely in the Gallagher house, feeling like he was around people but not _with_ them, it was nothing compared to now. At least now, though, he was used to being this type of lonely. No friends, no relationship? No extended family he gave a shit about, for the most part? He could teach a college course on that. He had practically cultivated that existence on purpose, before Ian. It was just an easier way to live. 

Except that it felt a little different now, since he had known something else.

"But, hey,” he said, aiming for a lightness that he didn't quite manage. “At least I've got my own place and it's a fuckin' palace, huh?"

"You know what? This place is shit," Mandy told him, voice stronger now. "It's a dump. But so was our house growing up. And this place is yours. You're paying for it, with your money, from your job. And that fucking means something. So I'm gonna shower and get dressed, and you're gonna put on your big-boy pants, and we're going to find me a job and get some paint and start making this place suck less." 

"Alright there, girl scout of the year. Maybe dial back the enthusiasm, it's still gonna be a roach motel." But Mickey didn't mean it with any degree of heat. He turned back toward the counter for a coffee refill. "Listen, if you get that sandwich job, I'm gonna need a hookup. Those little cookies they make are like fuckin' crack. Spend like, half my paycheck there."

Mandy rolled her eyes as she turned to head into the bathroom.

"Haven't even put in an application yet and already you're trying to get me to steal? Typical Milkovich." 

\--

Less than an hour later she was dressed in one of the only two sets of clothes that she'd brought - she'd worn the other the day before on the train ride down - and they were on their way to the mall first, since Mandy wanted to get that part out of the way. She'd tied her hair back and put on a little bit of make-up to make up for the fact that she looked underfed and exhausted, not that she thought the Food Court only hired fine, upstanding citizens. 

"How's work going so far?" she asked Mickey after spending the first part of the ride looking out the window, taking in the familiar sights and trying to decide how she really felt about being back. 

"It's work," Mickey replied. He was aimlessly drumming his fingers on his knee. Ever since the crash, he felt a little closed-in in a vehicle, even one as big as a bus. "I gave them a note from my doctor but they didn't really give a fuck. I'm on parole so it's not like they need to go out of their way to accommodate me. It's fine, though. I'd rather walk around the mall than be stuck in front of the monitors all day." 

"How's physical therapy going? Have you finished that yet?" If Ian had told Mandy about the argument they'd had about Mickey's therapy, she didn't give any sign of it. 

"Not yet. I don't know, she says I gotta do the at-home stuff more." Mickey found it hard to motivate himself to do the stretching and movements that he had been advised to do because they seemed so pointless.

Mandy shook her head. "Sounds like I got here just in time, then. You need someone to kick your ass. You don't want to be, like, forty and not able to use your arm, right? Who the fuck is going to defend my honour?" 

She gave him a small grin, both of them knowing that she hadn't needed his help with that since she'd been about ten years old. Not that she had much honour to defend, she figured.

"At the rate I'm going, I'll be fucking thrilled if I make it to forty," Mickey muttered. These days, it felt like if it wasn't the cartel that punched his ticket, it was a matter of time before it was Terry or something else from a lifetime of sometimes questionable decisions. 

"You're such a girl," Mandy said, kicking at Mickey's foot with hers. "Always so fucking dramatic." Truth was, though, people who lived the way Mickey had often _didn't_ make it to forty. Hell, Mickey almost hadn't. But Mandy didn't like to think about that much. 

"How was - how was Lip the last time you saw him?” She asked, attempting casual and missing the mark. “Bet his kid is getting big." 

Mickey glanced over at her. "He's still an asshole," he said bluntly. "But, I don't know. Pretty sure he's still sober. He's got a job that he's had for a while, as a mechanic or some shit. His kid is cute, I guess. Kinda got some gingery hair coming in, like Ian." 

He didn't mention Tami. If Mandy wanted to torture herself with that, she'd have to ask. 

"Fucking waste," she said, definitely bitter. "He shoulda gotten out of here. He didn't need to end up in a shitty job with a fucking kid." But she was not just bitter; she was jealous, too. If Lip was going to do that shit, it should have been with her. The only thing that had made giving him up even semi-okay was knowing he was going to be _better_ than all of that shit. And he blew it.

Mickey only shook his head slightly at that. He knew, obviously, that Lip was smart - how many assignments had he paid Lip to do before he had stopped bothering with school entirely? - but he wasn't _better_ than them. He definitely didn't deserve to be looked at with stars in anyone's eyes.

"Whatever. It's the fuckin' South Side. Nobody gets out. We're not gonna, so why should he?" In Mickey's case, he had never meant to get out of the South Side. He liked it just fine. At least he knew his place in the bigger scheme of things.

Mandy decided not to reply to that; she knew that score, wouldn't have even brought it up if she could have asked Ian instead. 

"Have you seen Terry?" she asked him. "If he's heard you and Ian split up, you'll be safe from him for a while, at least." It didn't quite qualify as an upside or silver lining but maybe on the South Side it was as close as you could get. 

"No. Haven't heard from him. I'm kinda hoping he doesn't know where I live." Mickey didn't want to deal with a single second of Terry assuming that being apart from Ian meant he somehow wasn't gay and they'd go back to being buddy-buddy again (as much as they ever had been, anyway). 

"What have you been doing, since you moved out?” Mandy asked. “Like, besides work? Just sitting on your ass, drinking beer?"

Mickey gave her a look. "What is this, the Spanish fuckin' Inquisition? Yeah, I mostly sit on my ass and drink beer. What's it to you? I'm still fuckin' tired a lot. What am I gonna do, take up knitting?"

"Okay, then..." Mandy pretended to be writing on an invisible notepad. _"Add to list of things to do - get Mickey a fucking hobby..."_ She pretended to scribble that out. " _Get Mickey a legal hobby... _" She looked over at him. "Fuck it, I could use a hobby, too. We never had those growing up, we should see what the fuss is about. We could always take up yoga." 

From the look on Mickey's face, you would have thought that Mandy suggested they take up interplanetary travel. "Hobbies are for rich people. Especially fucking _yoga_." 

He didn't think that he could name a single person with a hobby. If you couldn't make money off of it, why bother? "I get up, I go to work, I come home, I shower, I cook something, then all I wanna do is play video games or watch TV for a couple of hours until bed. I'm not - _living the dream_ but who is?"

"Okay, calm your tits," Mandy said, laughing. "I was joking about the yoga. Though if I had any real money, I would pay it to see you try it." She had a rather determined glint in her eye, not unlike when she'd decided that Lip was applying to college whether he knew it or not. "I'll have a think on it." 

Her brother would never be a social animal, but he'd been... looser, since getting out of prison the last time. A lot had to do with finally being together with Ian, but she also remembered years before, when they were all living in the Milkovich house. No, he hadn't had hobbies, per se, but she wanted to him to have that slightly lighter step he'd had then even without Ian. 

"I'm starving," she told him. "I've got, like... eighteen bucks in my pocket. If I get the job, I'll buy us lunch to celebrate. And if I don't, then I'll blow the last money I'll ever have on our lunch. Sound good? Get you some of those fucking cookies."

"The last money you'll ever have? Who's a drama queen now?" Mickey raised his eyebrows. "You're definitely paying for lunch with that attitude. Who knows when I'm gonna start seeing your cut of the rent money."

He got up, as they neared their stop, holding onto the bar for support. "You're trying a cookie. It's not up for debate. Then you'll know I'm not blowing my load for some substandard pastry."

"Hey, listen.” Mandy didn’t want to brush past what he had said about rent, even if she could tell that he was (mostly) joking. “If I stay with you, I'll find a way to make rent money, okay? It might take a while to pay half of everything but I'll get it. And don't worry. I won't, like. Force you to live with your sister forever. I'll figure something out, get another place."

Mickey's space was his. And it was small. He didn't need to have her constantly around, on his couch, when he was trying to build a life. Plus, Mandy was as much a Milkovich as Mickey was; she could turn a quick buck when she had to. 

"It's fine," he said quickly, not having expected her earnestness. "I'd be paying rent anyway." 

Mickey didn't want her to think that he was just counting down the days until she was gone. Maybe they weren't Hallmark-card siblings, but having her around, especially right now, made a difference. And anyway, he would rather have her under his roof than not be sure of whether she was safe under someone else's. 

Mandy followed him off the bus, into the mall through the food court entrance. "Alright. Let's get this over with. Where's the place with the cookies?"

"Come on." He took her through to the food court, and pointed out the sandwich place. "I'll, uh. Get a coffee or something while you talk to the manager."

Mandy was definitely and visibly nervous, hands a little shaky. Maybe, she reasoned as she headed to the little shop, the manager would be a guy. Blow him quick, get the job. It wouldn't be the first time. She glanced over her shoulder one more time at Mickey, then walked up to the counter, doing her best to smile. 

It took a very long time before she came out again, though she had sent Mickey a couple of texts while she was gone. ( _'Have to do an application.' 'I think he's going to interview me now.')_ When she found Mickey where he was waiting, she looked a little apologetic. 

"Sorry. It - he made me wait forever. But, um. I might have a job. I have to some kind of orientation training and memorize all the sandwiches." She held up a thick packet of papers. "But if I do okay, I can work there."

"No shit?" Mickey knew that, despite the fact that he had only told her about the job this morning, not getting it would have been hard on her. She needed a win. He was glad that it had worked out. He also knew better than to embarrass her by making too big of a deal about it. "Gainfully employed, huh? Guess that means I get my free lunch." 

"Not employed yet,” Mandy said quickly. “You know I'm shit at memorizing anything." 

"It ain't that hard to memorize some sandwiches. You were better at school than me, and I memorized a _lot_ of shit for dad. We'll make some cue cards or some shit." How hard could it be, Mickey reasoned?

"I wasn't better," Mandy said with a roll of her eyes. "I just actually _went._ " 

Mandy had long since given up ever getting her hopes up, and she wasn't going to start now. It was going to be an uphill battle, at best. 

"I'll still buy you lunch, though. I got a look at those cookies. I'm starting to think that you might be on to something. So, let's eat. You need to do anything else while we're here? You could introduce me to all of your work friends."

"Yeah, my dozens of work friends," Mickey said sarcastically, as they made their way to the sandwich counter. "I'm sure we'll see them any minute."

The teen boy who took their order was already giving Mandy the eye, calling her by name after meeting her just a few minutes before. But while he was polite and she was polite back, she wasn't the same girl as the one Mickey likely remembered most, the one who was openly flirtatious and willing to use her looks to her advantage. Still, the boy - Troy, his name tag said - threw in two cookies for each of them for free. 

"Must be your lucky day," she said to Mickey when they were sitting again, plastic trays in front of them. "I buy you lunch _and_ you get free cookies." 

She paused and looked up from her food at him. "I can't believe I just said you got free cookies and meant actual cookies. Which, by the way, if you're gonna blow your load, not at the table, please." 

Mickey gave her a look that was nearly the equivalent of flipping the bird. "No illegal cookies for a while. Not until I'm done parole, at least. Now eat one so you can get on my level about the fuckin' cookies." 

Mandy paused in unwrapping her sandwich to pull one of her cookies from its wrapper. After a bite, she was fighting a smile because only death would be less pleasant than telling Mickey he was right. He'd probably gloat all day. "Fine. They're not bad. And that's all I'm saying." 

"Not bad? How the fuck are we related."

There was a natural lull while they unwrapped their sandwiches and began eating.

Eventually, Mandy asked him, "Do you have any memories of being here with Ian? Sorry, I don't - should I not mention him at all? I don't want to make things worse but so much of the last decade has involved him." 

"You can mention him,” Mickey replied. “Not mentioning him doesn't make me forget about him. Ironically. Since I forgot everything fuckin' else." He scowled at his sandwich. "Nah, I don't remember Ian ever being here. But I know he was, because he mentioned that he used to come here for lunch sometimes. And sometimes people ask me about him. So I guess I at least told people I got married." 

"Oh, man. That's gotta be awkward." Mandy hadn't even thought of that, that now that Mickey had a real job with regular co-workers, they might ask about Ian. 

Mickey shrugged. "Not that many people ask. I don't exactly seem like a guy who loves small talk. They already think I'm permanently fifteen to twenty seconds away from blowing a gasket over the fuckin' purple shirt." 

Mandy watched him. "Do you have any good memories with him? I know a lot of the big, bad ones came back first." 

Ian had, of course, told her that much. 

There was a pause while Mickey chewed his sandwich, figuring out what he wanted to say.

"I remember a few things, yeah," he said. "I guess... I remember working with him, a little, at the Kash and Grab. Just bits and pieces. I remember that he likes Van Damme better than Seagal." He remained focused on his food as he added, "I remembered something the other day, like a whole memory, with - context and shit, which I don't usually get. It was some guy playing Livin' on a Prayer for us, at the Alibi. Ian hired him, because I kinda... thought that was a good song for us, I guess." 

"For the wedding. Yeah, he told me about that." If Mandy had any thoughts about that being one of the few positive memories Mickey had gotten back, she didn't say anything, letting them both eat in silence for a bit. 

"Any memories of Yev?” she asked, eventually. “Are you still getting pictures? He was a pretty cute baby. Had your eyes, for sure. Stubborn as fuck, like you, too. Especially when anyone tried to get him to nap when he didn't want to."

"Nah, I don't remember the kid." It was one of the things that made Mickey wonder if Ian was somehow right after all, about Mickey subconsciously picking and choosing what to remember. "I still get pictures, though. And Svetlana let me talk to him, the other day. He seems like a good kid. He doesn't really... get who I am, to him. He was polite, but to him, his dad is that rich guy Svetlana hooked. Which is probably a good thing."

"When he gets older he can get to know you," Mandy said firmly. "You weren't a bad dad, it just took you a while. I think when Ian took him, it sort of made you realize you might love Yev a little, down deep. And who knew Svet wouldn't suck as a mom? I know you don't remember, but none of us saw it coming, that's for sure."

"Yeah. Well, I guess I never thought about it much, but if I did, I definitely didn't think I was a kid guy. So it's not exactly a shock that I wasn't dad of the year. I heard that Ian was good, though." 

"He was good, yeah,” Mandy agreed. “Ian's a real kid guy, big softy down deep. Plus, like I said, Yev has your eyes. That probably had something to do with it."

Mandy was no shrink but she figured that it was good for Mickey to talk about Ian, if he was going to work through all of the shit going on. And she was the person who knew them both the best, so why not talk to her?

Mickey let a beat pass with his sandwich in his hands, but didn't take a bite. "Ian seemed surprised, when I told him I never wanted kids. I guess I told him I'd be up for it, before."

"I don't think you planned on kids, no. But he wanted them and you've never been real good at telling Ian no,” Mandy pointed out. “Plus, I think after seeing him with Yev, maybe... you saw it could be nice."

"Yeah, I didn't tell him no very much, apparently." Mickey didn't blame Ian for the accident, but he definitely thought that he himself could have made some smarter choices in that regard. "It sucks that he won't talk to you. I know I'm not, like, a real replacement. We don't talk about shit."

"I don't want you to be a replacement for Ian,” Mandy said at once, firmly. “You're not Ian, you're my brother. And don't apologize. I'm not here because he stopped talking to me." 

Mandy didn't spell it out, but she knew he could figure out what she meant: she'd have chosen Mickey in this mess, no matter what. "It doesn't matter if we never used to talk about stuff. If it's important enough, we'll talk about it now. Everything else, whatever. We're not kids anymore and we're, you know. Pretty much all each other has. We'll figure it out."

"Yeah. Alright." 

Mickey crumpled up a napkin and tossed it on the table. He was not used to this thing where he had a normal, grownup relationship with his sister but he didn't mind it, so far. 

"Before I moved out, me and Ian had a big fight about me going to see Terry." _Don't say I told you so,_ was the implied warning. "He was pissed that I brought you with me. I told him I don't tell you what to do."

"Yeah..." Mandy said slowly. "I know he was pissed." 

That was an understatement. She'd gotten a forever-long series of texts from Ian while she'd been on the bus home, most of them featuring all-caps curses. 

"Or, well. Maybe not pissed. I mean, yes, pissed but. Pissed because you scared him. Which... I get why you went but I get his reaction, too. Even for Terry, he was fucking nuts over you being gay. And I know you heard about most of it, but it was different, seeing it."

"I guess." Mickey shrugged a little. "I know he didn't visit me when I was in a maximum security prison and I was definitely in more fuckin' danger there than I've ever been with Terry."

Mandy did not respond to that particular comment about prison. Her own relationship with Ian had been spotty, then, as he fought going on meds and they were both basically a shit-show for a while. Even so, it had been really shit of him not to visit Mickey, and she'd told him so. 

"I knew he was gonna be exactly like this over me being gay,” Mickey said, feeling like he had explained this a hundred times but never properly, never in a way that other people seemed to understand. “Why the fuck does everyone think I kept it hidden for so long? Dad used to beat the shit out of dudes with long hair in front of us just because they _looked_ gay. He used to make threats about what he'd do if he ever found out about any of us. If Terry trying to cave in my skull because I'm gay was a surprise to anyone else, it sure as shit wasn't to me."

"No one was surprised, dumbass,” Mandy said. “We all knew he'd lose it. Which is why I wasn't letting you go there alone, and why Ian was upset you didn't tell him. In his own truly fucked-up way, I think Terry was actually sad about you being gay. Not just in a crazy homophobic way, though that, too. But because you were the favourite. And now he thinks he has to kill you."

"Yeah, no shit,” Mickey replied. “You and me share the family brain cell, and you were the only girl, so he had his old-fashioned bullshit about you being a precious fuckin' flower when it came to which kids he was gonna drag into his schemes. I was his little fuckin' sidekick by default."

Mickey didn't have to work too hard to headshrink Terry.

"He wants to keep giving me chances to come to my senses. It's fuckin' pathetic."

"Yeah." Mandy put her sandwich down, breaking off a piece of a cookie. Terry was pathetic, no doubt about that. But even so, she could remember, when she was younger, how warm she would feel when he would give her some trinket or the like that he'd stolen from someone somewhere. Or when he would compliment her cooking. So, really, she thought as she crumbled the bit of cookie in her fingers, who was the pathetic one? 

"Maybe just... don't hold that against Ian, how upset he got about Terry, okay?” she said. “You dying would probably, like, kill him, too." And then, so Mickey wouldn't get the wrong idea about where her head was: "He's done plenty of other shit you can be mad about instead." 

"No shit." Mickey wasn't going to argue with her. He knew how Ian felt. There was just a gulf between that feeling and the way that Mickey felt, now that he was different, about Ian trying to give him shit about how he wanted to live his life. "Was he always like that? Like, when we were together, did we piss each other off this much?"

There was a hint of a smile on Mandy's lips as she took a drink. 

"Yeah, sometimes," she said. "I mean, sometimes things were bad just because of circumstances and shit. But even when things were good, you guys were good at pushing buttons. But, like. When you were happy, you were really happy. You both figured out ways to sort of... bend. Not that you still didn't annoy each other but, you know." 

"Well, I'll take your word for it,” Mickey said. “Sometimes I think it must have just been like, 85% fucking."

He tossed his napkin onto the tray and rubbed at his eyes. "We tried that. Fucking, I mean. Maybe shouldn't have, because I knew he was gonna have more fuckin' feelings about it than me. But he's a grownup, he can decide shit for himself." He shrugged. "Didn't fix it." 

Of course Mandy knew a lot more than she was going to say. Mickey needed to start moving on, and trying to convince him that he and Ian had, in fact, been happy wasn't going to be helpful. And it likely wasn't going to work. She figured that he needed to believe he was doing the right thing for them both if he was going to put his life together. 

"Yeah, he... told me about that." Ian with his ability to somehow be able to fool himself, to be optimistic, even after the life he'd had. He'd been elated, at first, that Mickey had wanted to have sex, but she'd been able to hear the false bravado. "Probably a really bad choice on both of your parts. Were you really trying to fix things?" She called out Ian when he was trying to bullshit her; she wasn't afraid to do it to her brother, too.

Mickey looked at her for a few seconds, then shrugged. "No," he admitted. "We were just having a good day - a good few days - and I thought, fuck it."

He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms. "Just because I don't remember how we were doesn't mean I'm not attracted to him. And it was good. Like, really good. He was in a great mood after and, I mean. I just didn't regret it. Not right away. I figured that we were heading in the right direction and we were gonna end up doing it eventually anyway. Then he threw that shit directly into my face when I was leaving."

The extent of the texts that Ian had sent since Mickey moved out was one message saying, 'tell your brother he can fuck off'. So Mandy was surprised by what Mickey said. 

"Threw it in your face? How? What did he say?" 

She wasn't surprised that them having sex had backfired, but she was a little shocked Ian had admitted it to Mickey. 

"He listed it as one of a bunch of things that he did _for_ me,” Mickey said. He wanted to get up and move around; he was reaching his limit of how much personal shit he could talk about all in one go, especially in his workplace. “Like... he was rhyming off shit he did, like taking care of me after the accident, like it was a big favour and I owed him. Like I was being an asshole for bailing after he did all that shit for me."

Once Mickey had explained, Mandy was still a little surprised; not that Ian had said what he'd said but that _Mickey_ seemed surprised by it. Surely he knew as well as anyone that anger in place of hurt was an entire lifestyle in the South Side. 

"Kind of a low blow," she said. She didn't bother adding that Ian probably hadn't really meant it. Mandy didn't really believe in God but if there was one, he seemed to sure have it out for her brother and Ian. 

"Hey," she said, changing the subject, not wanting Mickey to have his entire day shadowed by this conversation. "If you get any memories back of Mexico, I want to hear them. I never really knew what you were doing down there. And, I mean. I've never really traveled anywhere." 

"Yeah, shit. I wish I remembered that, too. Although I think I was mostly doing cartel-related shit. Can't imagine I made a bunch of friends, since I still don't speak any Spanish. But I bet the tequila was good, at least." 

He rolled up his sleeve a little, so she could see his tattoo. "Looks like I missed home, though." 

Mandy snickered. "You have the most ill-advised tattoos of anyone I've ever met," she said. "You sure that one's spelled right? You don't speak Spanish, what if it says something like, 'I like giant cock'?" 

"It'd still be accurate." Mickey rolled his sleeve back down. "Anyway, who gives a shit. It's my skin, ain't nobody gonna wear it after me. And it's not like I'm trying to get a job in a pre-school. You got any tattoos?"

"Nah," Mandy said with a shrug, putting the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth. "Sometimes I think about it but I've never really had anything that meant enough. And we're not all cool enough to pull off the knuckle tats look."

She sucked down what was left of her drink, then finished her second cookie. 

"Okay. You're right. These are fabulous." 

Mickey raised his hands as if to say, _see?_

It was nice to be able to bask in his vindication rather than thinking too hard about everything that they had talked about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, some big-time stuff is about to go down next chapter. Buckle up!


	14. This Plane is Definitely Crashing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plane is definitely crashing  
> This boat is obviously sinking  
> This building's totally burning down  
> And my, and my  
> And my heart has slowly dried up.  
>  \--"Shit Luck", Modest Mouse
> 
> Specific CW for this chapter: Once again, Terry doesn't say anything worse than he's said on the show, but it bears mentioning that there are some homophobic remarks.
> 
> Note from Happy_Schmuell: Y'all. Fasten your seatbelts because we're rounding the corner on the final third of our tale. Big life changes are jarring at first, but sometimes the worst things turn out to be the best. And sometimes what we think we want doesn't go down quite as easily as we expect it to.

Mickey was on his second whiskey and third beer, and was starting to feel a little toasty. The Alibi felt familiar, even though it wasn't, really; sure, he had been in it a few times in his early teenage years, but he hadn't started to sit at the bar for the express purpose of getting blind drunk until probably later, during the time that he didn't remember. Still, he recognized it, or at least, recognized the atmosphere, and it was something to do other than drink at home. Maybe Mandy was onto something with this get-a-hobby thing.

The other nice thing was that nobody here bothered him. He came in once or twice a week, maybe, after work or on a day off, and it was always the same. Kev had asked him once about Ian, a long few weeks ago now, but Mickey had just shrugged and downed his drink and that had been the end of it. He had seen Frank more than once, but Frank either didn't remember that Mickey had married his son or didn't care, because he never addressed any of his commentary to Mickey specifically. Mickey had never seen Terry in, although he knew when Terry's pool-playing window was and tended to avoid coming in at those times. 

All that to say that, though it took a little cut out of his check, he thought it was more or less worth it. 

When the door opened and Terry arrived, there was the usual round of glasses raised or greetings called out, same as when any regular came into the Alibi or, probably, any of its contemporaries in any rough part of any other city. Judging by the worn flannel shirt pulled on over a damp and stained wife-beater, Terry had pre-gamed at home. A loud belch and raucous greeting accompanied by a clap on the shoulder to a man who was, on that day, deemed worthy of an individual hello, only further proved it. 

First steering towards a half-empty table, when he caught sight of Mickey at the bar, the elder Milkovich changed course to take the stool to his son's left. 

"Well, well, well," he said. "Chip off the old block." He motioned Kev over, gestured more than said that he wanted a beer.

Mickey hadn't looked up when Terry entered the bar. He had been aware of it in the back of his mind, the way you keep track of a possible risk, but he hadn't turned around to confirm if it really was Terry or not. He ignored him at first, finishing off his whiskey and pushing it across the bar for a refill when Kevin brought Terry a beer.

"What do you want?" It was a better question than _why are you here, you never come in at this time_ because that would give away that Mickey had been avoiding him. 

"What do I want?" Terry looked over his shoulder and repeated the question loudly to laughs from his cohorts. That it made no real sense and wasn't really funny was of no matter. "Can't a man sit down with his son and have a beer? It's a public establishment, no seating chart, last I checked."

"Not if that man came to his son's wedding with a fucking gun." Mickey could feel his shoulders tensing. He knew that Kev would call the police if things got out of hand, but he also knew that Terry and his pals wouldn't need long. Mickey didn't have friends in here and he was certainly outnumbered. "You and me don't have anything to talk about, pops. Go sit with your friends." 

"You don't think so?" 

Terry drained down the beer that Kev slid across the counter to him, not coming up for air or motioning for another until he'd swallowed it all down. "The way I hear it, you finally realized that wedding was as big a mistake, like I told you. Shoulda listened to your old man. Haven't steered you wrong yet." 

Mickey snorted. There was no point in rehashing all of Terry's bullshit, because Terry didn't think that he'd been in the wrong for any of it. Mickey tried not to acknowledge the swell inside of him that spoke to all the ugliness that Terry had been party to, all the doorways he'd darkened in Mickey's life. Just because he didn't remember the worst of it didn't mean it was forgiven.

Instead, he said, "Yeah, well. I'm still gay. Still fucking dudes. You all good with that now?" 

"And who was it that convinced you of that?" Terry asked, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one up. "The Gallagher kid. Always showing up, bossing you around. After fucking around with your sister first. He tell you he came by once, bragging about fucking you in the ass? Shoulda just killed him, then. Put a bullet in _his_ ass, see how he likes that."

Mickey nearly rolled his eyes. "No one _convinced_ me, dad. Jesus Christ. You know Ian's not the only guy I've fucked, right? And if him and me don't work this out, he's not gonna be the last. It's got shit-all to do with him and everything to do with me. I'm just fuckin' wired this way." He set his glass down rather harder than necessary on the bar. "What do you want me to say? Ian never should've come by to see you because you don't know shit about shit?" 

"I don't know shit about shit?" 

Terry's laugh turned into a hard cough, barking and phlegmy. "Boy, you wouldn't even be here without me. You wouldn't have survived one goddamn day in prison if you didn't have my last name. You need to think long and hard about who it is that gets your loyalty because it sure as fuck shouldn't go to any pillow biter."

"Please. Prison ain't that hard.” Mickey’s voice was flat. “It's got nothing to do with being a Milkovich and everything to do with being the bigger asshole. Luckily I learned from the fuckin' best, huh?" 

He finished his beer, but it didn't taste like anything. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. "Anyway, I changed my last name. I'm sure you heard about that and had a fuckin' aneurysm about it, right?" 

Terry gestured at Mickey with the hand holding his cigarette. 

"You learned everything from me," he told him. "Except for that queer bullshit. And, last I checked, you and Gallagher weren't married anymore, not that it matters. You're a fucking Milkovich, through and through. Why anyone would _choose_ to be a Gallagher is a fucking mystery." He coughed again, harder this time, rapping his fist on his chest as if to knock something loose. 

"Yeah, well, that's the difference between you and me,” Mickey said. “I know where I came from but I don't gotta stay there. And you lost the right to lecture me about family when you showed up and waved a gun in my face. Nah - probably before that, actually, if we’re gonna get into it." 

"Well, someone has to try and scare you straight." Terry was nowhere near clever enough to mean it as any kind of pun. 

Mickey made a face when Terry coughed again. "You smoking too much, or what?" 

Terry rubbed his chest for a second, grimacing. "No such thing, so don't get your hopes up. Last time I was in the joint, the doc said I put too much stress on my heart. I told her when she had a fag for a son she could talk to me about stress."

Mickey made a face into his glass. "Yeah, I'm sure it had nothing to do with being in federal prison for running drugs or smoking two or three packs a day for thirty years." It would be just his luck, he figured, if Terry made it to ninety and died of old age. _Man,_ he was tired of this shit. "Maybe I'll stick with the last name Gallagher, huh? Has a nice ring." 

"Degenerate name for a fucking degenerate son," Terry said, his voice raising. "I gave you every fucking thing, took care of all of you little shits after your worthless mother left." He hacked again but barely missed a beat. "Lucky her, not sticking around to be disappointed in you." 

"Who took care of us?” Mickey asked incredulously. Distantly, he was aware of the fact that Kev and half the bar were doing a shitty job of pretending not to listen, but it didn't seem important. “Not you, asshole. You were in jail most of the time after mom left. Joey and Colin are waste cases and Mandy lived with a guy who pimped her out and beat her up. You're not getting any fuckin' gratitude from me."

Terry coughed aggressively, as if trying to bring up something. It was violent enough that a man from a nearby stool came over to pound on his back, trying to get him to sit in a chair but he refused. "Not done giving this pole smoker a piece of my mind." 

Mickey couldn't help the sarcasm. "Oh, don't hurt yourself on my account, dad."

"You'd be fucking dead if not for me," Terry said, stubbing out his cigarette and jabbing a finger in Mickey's face. "Fucking runt of the litter. Knew we shoulda drowned you in the bathtub, more trouble than you're - " 

He coughed again, the sound like someone had taken sand paper to his throat. And this time he didn't stop. Then, a number of things happened in quick succession. 

The pint glass slipped from his hand, hitting the counter and tipping, crashing to the floor. Terry was then clutching his chest, pulling at his shirt as it was suddenly too tight. He managed to get out a string of hoarse words - most of them some form of ' _fuck_ ' - and then he was falling from the stool. 

By the time he reached the floor, eyes bulging, he was still. 

  
\--  
  


It happened too quickly for Mickey to do much more than watch. He didn't even reach out when Terry fell. It was only when, in the shocked silence that followed, Mickey saw that Terry's eyes were open and unseeing and fixed on the ceiling above that he understood what had happened. 

He reached out for whatever friend of Terry's was closest, blindly. "Call an ambulance." His voice sounded surprisingly calm in his own ears. Climbing down off his bar stool, he took a step back, away from the body, and then another step, knocking into another bar stool. 

_The body._ One minute here, screaming that he wished Mickey were dead, the next minute gone; so fucking furious that his heart gave out. 

Mickey heard Kev saying his name, and from the tone in his voice, it wasn't the first time.

Mickey couldn't take his eyes away from the parts of Terry's body he could see through the legs of the patrons that had started to crowd around, Terry’s legs and one hand, fingers loosely curled, completely still. 

"What?" he asked, more to shut Kevin up than out of any interest in what he had to say.

"You want to sit down?" Kev asked. "I poured you a drink. On the house." 

Mickey reached out and took the glass, but he didn't drink it and he didn't sit. Kevin went around him and started giving people shit for being looky-loos. He put a rag over Terry's face that might have looked funny, if Mickey had been in the mood to laugh. 

Someone evidently had called 9-1-1, as ten minutes later (not a bad arrival time for a heart attack on the South Side) paramedics came through the door. No one had stopped drinking but the bar had fallen into something of a silence. As the female paramedic - Llewellyn, her name plate said - immediately went to Terry, the male - Davies - asked Kevin what had happened. 

Upon seeing Mickey, whom Kevin had indicated in his story, Davies approached him, less formal. 

"Hey, Mickey. Gallagher, right? My guys played against Ian's softball team at the holiday cookout. I don’t know if you remember - well, hey, that doesn't matter. We're gonna get your dad to the hospital." He glanced down at his partner who looked up and gave a slight shake of her head and Davies turned back to Mickey. "Why don't you come, too? Ride along with us, yeah?"

Mickey was finding it hard to punch through the haze that he was in. He let Ian's paramedic pal usher him into the ambulance because he couldn't think of anywhere else to go, and because on another level, he couldn't think of a way to explain _I've been wishing Terry was dead on and off for a long time_ to a stranger. 

Mickey looked out the window on the way to the hospital, and mercifully, the driver didn't speak to him. It was only after a flurry of activity that saw the gurney with his dad on it disappear down a corridor without him that Mickey sat down heavily on a plastic chair in the waiting room and felt like he had space to breathe.

Almost on autopilot, he fumbled for his phone and called Mandy. 

\--

Mandy had no idea how long Mickey had been waiting on her when she got to the hospital. Her phone showed an hour since his first call, which she'd missed. She'd missed all of them, since she'd been working. Her phone had buzzed almost nonstop but she'd been at work, in the middle of a rush, and by the time she had finished her shift and checked to see who had called, Mickey had also texted, simply telling her to come to the hospital. Scared to death he'd had another accident, she had run to the bus stop but opted to not call on the way. She wanted to be with him when she heard what had happened. 

She was surprised to find him then, when she arrived, not in a room or a bed but in a waiting room chair. She was relieved but felt her stomach sink at the same time.

"Is it Ian?" 

"No, it's not Ian." Mickey had to say that first, quickly, because he could tell that she had sped to the hospital in a panic. There was no need for either speed or panic, he thought. Mandy's shoulders sagged in immediate relief.

Then:

"Dad's dead."

Mickey didn't sound as calm as he'd sounded at the Alibi. To his own ears, his voice came out thin and a little strained. He thought that maybe his hands were trembling slightly but he couldn't look away from Mandy to check. What was happening? Was it just adrenaline leaving his body? He couldn't have even begun to explain how he was feeling. 

Mandy’s eyes snapped up to focus in on Mickey again. 

"What?" 

It made no sense. She supposed she had just assumed that Terry would live for-fucking-ever, out of spite. They all had. "I - what happened?" 

"Heart attack. I think. Fell off his bar stool and was dead before he hit the ground."

Mickey reached up to cup the back of his neck with both hands. Maybe Mandy would have answers. Maybe Mandy would know how to feel. "He came into the Alibi. I usually avoid him because I can't fuckin' be bothered but today he came in early. He started giving me shit, like he does. Was mid-fucking-rant when he just – died."

_Died_ was a strange word to say, seemingly devoid of meaning. He wasn't sure why he had hesitated over it, since it didn't make him feel anything one way or the other. Why did people say flowery shit like _passed away?_ The only thing that explained what Terry had done was that he had died.

Mandy simply stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she dropped into the chair next to him, still very literally open-mouthed in shock. Terry was dead. 

Terry was _dead._

How could something she used to dream of make her feel almost... bad? Guilty, even? 

"A heart attack," she finally repeated. "Right in front of you?"

"Yeah, right fuckin' in front of me," Mickey very nearly snapped, even though he knew that Mandy was in as much shock as he was. He rubbed his face with his hands, and though he didn't apologize for his tone, he did lower his voice.

"He was telling me he wished he'd killed me when I was little. His usual bullshit. His friends were trying to get him to sit down because he was obviously having a hard time but he wouldn't. Not until he finished giving me hell. And then he just – fucking died. It only took a second, felt like." 

"Holy shit." 

God, it was _weird._ When she'd imagined this day, Mandy had pictured laughing with Mickey, maybe throwing back a shot as they wished the devil good luck on spending eternity with Terry. What she hadn't anticipated were the fuzzy memories, when she'd been too small to know her father was an asshole and they were nothing but a white trash loser family, how she'd giggled and squealed when he'd twirled her around in their shitty front yard. When was the last time that had even come to mind? She looked over at Mickey again. 

"Are you okay?"

Mickey didn’t say anything for half a second too long.

"I don't know." That felt honest, at least, and it was a relief to say it out loud. Some of the pressure in his chest was alleviated when he admitted that one simple thing. "I feel like I'm - in shock, or something. I don't really feel anything." 

Like Mandy, he had imagined more than once being in the mood to dance on Terry's grave once he was free of him. But he had also never seriously imagined that this day would come, or at least so soon. 

The rhythm of things was this: The sun came up, Mickey started his day, and somewhere, Terry probably thought about killing him. In the back of Mickey's mind, that thought always lurked. 

But not anymore. 

"Sorry I called you so many times. I didn't know what else to do." 

"No, it's - it's okay,” Mandy said. “Sorry I couldn't answer. We were slammed at work, I think a movie had just let out or something." 

She slid down in the chair, legs out in front of her. Her fingers drummed the denim of her jeans, nervous energy she was barely aware of. Then, without warning, she reached over and took Mickey's hand. 

"And he's definitely dead. Like... absolutely, not coming back, dead?"

Mickey let out a breathless laugh that didn't have much real humour in it. "Yeah, he's definitely dead. His eyes were open and they were..." He stopped himself and simply repeated: "Yeah, he's dead." 

He knew why Mandy had asked, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly without looking at her. 

"I guess we can go home."

What else was there to do? Maybe someone should tell Iggy and Colin and Joey and whoever else, but it didn't feel like it should be Mickey's job. He wanted nothing to do with the falling-down house or whatever else there was in Terry's paltry estate, even assuming that Terry had a will or that Mickey hadn't been excised from it years ago. Did they have to be responsible for burying him? Maybe one of the Milkovich cousins would take over all of that. Right now, Mickey just wanted to walk away. 

Mandy didn't stare at Mickey, knew that would make him uncomfortable. But she did study him for a moment. Terry was an ass but seeing your own father die in front of you still had to take a toll, surely. Even on a guy like Mickey who had seen so much. 

"Yeah, let's go home,” she said. “Could go for a beer or two." 

But she didn't move right away, just stayed where she was, hand in Mickey's, trying in vain to let it sink in. 

"Can't believe he didn't even suffer," she said, feeling an odd giddiness bubbling up all of a sudden. "Fucking _bastard._ I can't believe he didn't even suffer."

"Yeah. You could even say he died doing what he loved." 

Mickey almost smiled. Something about the way the emotional dam had burst and Mandy was expressing something real, even if it didn't make any sense, eased the wrong-footed sensation of not knowing what to feel. He felt a similar giddiness when he added:

"The idea of me gobbling cock literally killed him. He died of being a spiteful asshole. Cause of death: being a dick." 

Mandy started to laugh, softly at first and then harder. "How many times did you think about finishing him off? I lost count of the ways I imagined it. And all it took was a gay son. You should've come out years ago." 

"Fuck, I thought about it, but I always kind of figured that he'd either get shanked in the big house or live to be fuckin' a hundred." 

Mandy pulled her hand from Mickey's, wiped her eyes, and stood up. The laughter tears were starting to feel like maybe they were something else, and she wanted to get out of there. 

"Come on. Let's go home."

Mickey stood up to follow her out. They were going to really, physically leave Terry behind now. They were about to go where he would never follow. It made Mickey walk a little faster, almost as if he could still catch up with them. 

"Do you wanna - you wanna get drunk?"

Mandy laughed. "Fuck, yes, I do," she replied. "I'm off tomorrow so let's get shit-faced." 

She rarely got drunk (it was better to stay in control and aware), but tonight was a special occasion. Probably as close as either of them would get to having a wake for their father. Once outside she linked her arm in his, needing some contact. 

"Let's pick up Chinese for dinner, okay? Get trashed and eat too much, have a smoke in the old asshole's honour. Or as one last fuck you."

"Yeah. I've got some weed at the apartment. We might need to pick up a bottle, though." 

Mickey had been on his way to drunk at the Alibi, but that felt like years and years ago now. Instead, he now felt a thrumming, nervous energy under his skin that was hard to pin down.

Without quite knowing why, he blurted out, "Don't - fuckin' let me do anything dumb, okay? Don't let me get arrested." 

"Dumb like what?” Mandy asked. “We'll be at home, behind closed doors, okay? What's the worst that can happen?" 

Mickey just shook his head.

Mandy gave his arm a squeeze as they reached the bus stop just as the bus pulled up. Once they were boarded and seated, she assured him, "I won't let you get into any trouble, don't worry."

Mickey couldn't have explained what he was worried he might do. Smash windows, maybe, or shoot something. Burn something the fuck down. It made him jittery to think about, but none of those options felt quite right. 

"I just can't violate my parole and I don't know... I don't know if I'm gonna be in the mood to do that. I feel... fuckin' weird."

This was new for him, voicing aloud whatever reckless thoughts were crossing his mind instead of acting on them right away. Maybe he just really didn’t want to give Terry’s ghost the satisfaction of getting himself into trouble over this.

"Okay,” Mandy said. “So you do the drinking and I'll eat my - whatever the hell I feel about this. That way I can keep you out of trouble." 

Dealing with feelings had never been a Milkovich trait handed down through the generations. So, Mandy knew that Mickey wasn't overreacting in his concern. 

"No more looking over your shoulder, Mickey. I won't let you throw that away by getting locked up again."

"Yeah. Okay."

Mickey didn't have much to say the rest of the way back to their neighbourhood, or when they picked up the food and the bottle of whiskey. He opened it as soon as they were out of the store and took a long swallow. The burn as it went down made him feel a little better almost instantly. 

\--

When they got back to the apartment, he tossed his phone onto the kitchen table and grabbed plates from the cupboard. 

"You think anyone's sad he's dead?"

"I don't know." Mandy shrugged as she started to dish out the food, giving Mickey larger portions. "Some of our brothers and cousins might be. Like... what will they even do, now? You know that left to their own devices, they'll probably sit around at the table until they starve to death. If they don't have someone to tell them what to do, they won't do anything." 

She glanced at Mickey. "You call them? Do they even know?"

"Nah, not yet."

He was pretty confident that they would find out through the neighbourhood grapevine, if they hadn't already.

"I used to babysit those meatheads. It ain't my job anymore." Mickey sucked some sweet and sour sauce off his thumb. "Colin and Joey are dumb as a box of rocks but Iggy always did okay dealing. They'll probably be fine. At least Terry inherited the house so they'll have somewhere to live."

"Yeah, but they'll never make enough money to keep the bills paid." 

Mandy sort of felt like she should care more, and she knew she was saying the right things. But the truth was, she couldn't care less about her other brothers. 

"Do you think there will be a funeral?" A horrible thought crossed her mind. "We don't have to plan it, right?"

"Someone'll plan a funeral." Of that, Mickey was confident. Terry had a surprising circle of friends for a guy who treated his family like trash. "But it ain't gonna be us. As far as I'm concerned, they can throw him in a hole in the ground right outside the hospital."

Bringing his plate over to the couch, he reached for the bottle of whiskey again. In the background, some reality show played on the television on mute, bright flashes that Mickey was mostly ignoring. 

"We don't owe him shit. You know what he was saying to me, at the bar? That we're supposed to be grateful for him taking care of us, after mom fucked off."

Mandy followed Mickey to the couch, which still had her pillow and blanket from the night before balled up at one end. She was staying away from the hard stuff but she'd brought a can of beer in with her food. 

"Money from drug runs, managing to not let the whole house fall in around us. Yeah, father of the year every year, right? Guess that's a fair trade-off for knocking you guys around and knocking me up." She'd never said it out loud before; now that Terry was gone, it felt like she could, without consequences. 

"Yeah. Don't know why we're such ungrateful little assholes." 

Mickey knew immediately from the way she casually said those things aloud that there had been a monumental shift. It made the ground feel a little bit unsteady. There had always been Terry around to darken a doorway. He would go away - to run drugs, to prison - but he always came back. 

Not anymore. 

"I don't know what the fuck I even wanted from him. Something. Even though I was never gonna get it."

"Yeah," Mandy agreed. "And now we never will." 

As soon as she said it, she realized that was what was at the root of her churning and conflicting emotions. As long as Terry was alive, there was a chance - miniscule, at best - that he could at least try to change or make an effort. And deep down, Mandy had never truly believed he would. But, it turned out, hope was apparently hard to crush completely, especially when it came to parents. What Terry had been to them was what he would always be, now. Disney didn't come to the South Side. 

_"Fuck,"_ she said softly. 

"Yeah." Mickey was silent for a moment. He was mostly ignoring his food, gravitating toward the bottle whose neck was held clenched in his fist, resting on his thigh. "You know if I died he wouldn't spend a single solitary goddamn second wishing that he did a better job being a dad or wishing that I gave more of a fuck about him." 

Mickey knew he sounded a little bitter. It wasn't fair that they were sitting here feeling like this, but its being unfair didn't change it. "You, maybe, I think he'd be a little - not sad, I guess. But I think he might at least pour one out." 

"I wondered sometimes..." Mandy started, but then stopped, not sure she wanted to say it out loud because if Mickey looked at her like she was crazy or stupid she wasn't sure she could take it. "After he found out about the abortion, he, um... He kept his distance, didn't even really look at me. And I wondered sometimes if he maybe... felt bad about it? And if he felt bad, maybe that meant that he... cared? Maybe just a little? I don't know, it's stupid." 

If she said it was stupid first, then if Mickey said it, it wouldn't be quite as bad. 

"It's not more stupid than me marrying Svetlana because he wanted me to, or any of the other dumb shit I did that I thought would make him proud of me." Mickey leaned his head back against the couch cushions. He knew that both of them would rather not look at each other right now. 

"He probably did feel bad, somewhere down in that deep fuckin' dark hole where a soul should be. But not bad enough to apologize or try to make it right." He was silent for a moment. "I know what you mean, though. About wishing that he gave a shit.”

Mickey had thought that he had stopped doing that a long time ago, but he guessed he was just a fucking idiot. 

Mandy ate a couple of bites in silence, more for something to do than because she was hungry. It kept her hands busy, and kept her from talking while she tried to sort out what she wanted to say. 

"I don't want to end up like him," she finally came up with. She'd been wondering what had made Terry into the man that he'd become and the only answer she could come up, one that made her sick to her stomach, was that he'd had shitty parents. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she could see bits of him in herself and in Mickey. The anger, the struggle (in his part, the inability in hers) to truly love someone, the impatience. "But what if it's too late?"

"You're not gonna end up like him." It came out more forcefully than Mickey had meant it, perhaps because he had had the same thought about himself - many times. "The difference between us and him is that we don't want to be like him. Maybe I did, once upon a time, but I know better now. Yeah, we have a family history of bad decisions, but we can make fucking better ones now. We're already doing it."

He chased that with whiskey, then added, "If I did ever have kids, with Ian or whatever, I wouldn't want them to grow up and feel like I feel. I'll probably fuck up being a dad because I don't know shit about what that's supposed to be like, but at least I wanna be different. That's how I know that I don't have to be Terry's son if I don't want to."

Mandy nodded, twirling and un-twirling lo mein noodles on her fork. Mickey was right, they were already doing better. They both had _real_ jobs and while the apartment wasn't fancy, it was a roof over their heads, and before too long they could probably move to a nicer one, one with two bedrooms. 

"You were a good dad to Yev," she told him. "It was hard for you, harder than I even realized back then. But you took it real seriously, Mickey. You never yelled at him or anything." 

Ian had been more hands-on, but by being hands-off, Mickey had already been a better dad than Terry ever was. She looked over at Mickey and raised her near-empty beer can. 

"Here's to the man who showed us what to not fucking ever be. May he rot in hell."

Mickey held up his bottle in response. "Fuck 'im." 

He knew that was starting to verge on drunk, and drunk might mean any number of things, but it didn't usually mean emotional. It felt like that might not be the case tonight. "You think mom'll come back?" 

Mandy finished her beer then forced down a couple of bites of food. 

"She might, just to piss on his grave," she said with a shrug. "Of course, she'd have to hear about him dying to do that and I dunno who could even find her to tell her. I've got no idea where she is. Do you?"

"Fuck, no,” Mickey said. “You think she ever calls _me_ up? She fuckin' thought I was just like dad. If anyone was gonna hear from her, it'd be you."

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Mandy mused. “Remember when you were little? You were the only one with a pet name. She used to call you Mickey Mouse.”

“Was that before or after she was crushing up Vicodin so we’d sleep while she went out all night?” Mickey had forgotten about the nickname, genuinely, until Mandy had brought it up. “No one was mom’s favourite. She wasn’t a kid person.” He shook his head. "I bet she'll hear about it from someone. But she ain't coming back." 

"For all we know, she's dead now, anyway." Mandy sounded almost hopeful. She blamed her mother more than her father, she realized. Their mother had just left, leaving Mandy to figure out life as a girl then as a young woman and then as a woman in a home with a revolving door of male relatives and friends of the family, her brothers and dad but also cousins and uncles and who knew what else. In a Milkovich home, she figured she was lucky she'd only needed one abortion.

"I'm sorry," she said after a long pause. It was hard to get the words out since it was so out of the norm for either of them. But she really felt like she should. "I'm sorry he was so awful to you." 

"What the fuck are you sorry for?" Mickey looked over at her, braver now that he was closer to drunk. "It's not like the South Side is full of great dads and we missed out." He shrugged, and waved the hand that held the bottle. "And it doesn't matter now because I don't remember the worst of it anyway. Turns out there’s an upside to almost getting your head smashed in." 

"You deserved better, that's all," Mandy said. Their other brothers were idiots but Mickey's life could've have turned out differently. But beyond that, she wasn't going to push it. 

"So did you,” he replied. “But we got what we got."

They lapsed into a brief silence.

"You should eat more," Mandy said, noticing how much was still on his plate and how much he'd had to drink. "I don't mind taking care of your sloppy ass but I make the rules. So, eat."

Mickey looked down at his food. He didn't have the faintest desire to eat it, but he also knew that his stomach was full of whiskey and not much else. The edges of his drunk would start to get murky and dizzy pretty quickly if he didn't eat something. So, giving Mandy a pointed flick of his eyebrows, he took a bite of noodles, and then another. 

"You know, we should probably stay careful about people finding out where we live," he said, as it occurred to him. "I don't know if dad owed anyone money or if there are people who wanted to fuck with him, but now that he's gone they'll be looking for us." 

Mandy sighed. Mickey was right; even in death Terry still could be a threat. 

"Surely anyone who knew him would know he wouldn't give either of us anything and he wouldn't give a shit if we got hurt or killed." 

Still, when she worked the closing shift, it might be a good idea to carry a hammer or something in her bag. Just in case. 

"Take your shoes off," she told him, nudging his foot with hers. "I'm not wrestling boots off of you when you're drunk and I just washed your blankets, like, two days ago so you don't need to be getting dirt and shit on them."

Mickey kicked his boots off, as requested. Mandy tended to fall into the mom role, doing things like washing his blankets even though he hadn't asked her to. But it made the apartment nicer to live in, so he was trying to be more helpful in that regard. 

"It'll all die down in a few weeks, anyway," he said. "Then we can stop looking over our fucking shoulders and move on with our lives. Whatever that looks like."

"It looks like... I dunno, it looks better than what life has looked like up until now." Mandy was no kind of optimist but there was no way that life without Terry couldn't be better than life with him. "And hey, in just a few more weeks, maybe a month, we can look for a new place. My boss likes me, so he's letting pick up more shifts. Maybe I'll even be full-time soon. No insurance but I'll get vacation days, which is kinda cool." Not that she would go anywhere, but still. 

"Fuck yeah,” Mickey agreed. “Two bedrooms. Won't have to deal with your shit all over the couch."

Mandy finished her last few bites of food, looking at but not watching the television. "Do you, um... think you'll tell Ian?"

Mickey put his fork down. "Am I gonna tell him that my dad died? No. What's he gonna do, send fuckin' flowers? He might hate Terry more than I do." There was a pause. "One day I might be in the mood to throw a party because dad's dead, but I ain't in that mood yet."

"And you think Ian might want that? To celebrate it?" 

Mandy kept her eyes on the TV but was taking in Mickey peripherally. She wasn't sure if Mickey's two statements were related or not. "You could always tell him, but tell him you're not in the mood to hear how happy he is about it."

"I don't know what Ian wants,” Mickey admitted. “But I don't have room to figure that shit out right now." 

He knew she was watching him, but didn't look back. "He's probably gonna find out anyway. I don't need to call him and make it seem like it matters more than it does." 

Mandy nodded. She could get that, she guessed. If Mickey called Ian and told him, it might seem like Mickey thought he needed him and he didn't want to give Ian that impression or deal with it if Ian was over-emotional about it. 

On the other hand, she kind of thought Mickey might need Ian, a little bit. And as long as he was on his meds, Ian could come in handy in time of need. 

"Do you want more to eat?"

"Nah, I'm good." Mickey moved his plate from his lap to the table. The bottle now took centre stage in his lap. "You remember any good things? Anything that was actually good and didn't just... not suck?" 

Mandy put her plate and can on the table as well, slipped off her shoes, and pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapping around her legs. 

"I don't know," she said. "It was always kind of like, when the good things happened I was almost afraid to enjoy them. Because any little thing could set him off again, you know? I know when I was really small he used to give me piggy-back rides. I always liked that."

"Shit, I forgot about that."

Mickey remembered, now that she said it, that he'd been a little jealous that Terry was outwardly affectionate with Mandy. Terry had taken his boys on his criminal ventures, sure, but they were there more as little soldiers than children. And as much as Mickey had liked the 'atta boys' when he had gotten something right, the alternative had of course been getting his ass beat. 

"I don't know. I guess I liked sitting with him, cleaning guns,” he said. “Usually it mellowed him out. Sometimes he would tell me shit about his dad."

"Really?" _That_ was unexpected and Mandy looked over at Mickey in shock. "He'd never tell me anything. I stopped asking eventually, but I used to, a long time ago. All he'd tell me about his parents were their names. What did he tell you?"

Mickey shook his head. "Not a lot. Gramps fought in Vietnam. It fucked him up, sounds like. Dad says he put a gun in his mouth in '79. Before that he used to wake up at night and drag everyone out of bed. Night terrors or some shit. Thought the viet cong were in the house." 

Mickey turned the whiskey bottle slowly in his hand. "Dad said he learned how to clean a gun from him. His dad was real precise about it. Didn't sound like there were a lot of other great memories."

Mandy mulled that for a moment. "I guess that explains a lot. Almost makes me... feel bad for Terry." She felt weird saying it, and the words sounded odd coming from her mouth. It was hard to imagine Terry as a kid, living with a man who probably had untreated PTSD. Not that anyone in their house was ever treated for any of the shit baggage they had. 

'Wonder why he told you that,” she said. “I bet he never told Iggy or Colin." 

"Yeah, because it's too long and involved to fit into a children's book." Mickey glanced up at the TV, the light reflecting in his eyes. "I don't know. Dad wasn't really about chit-chat with us. He was supposed to talk and we were supposed to listen. When we were cleaning guns together, it was the only time that I felt like he was trying to maybe do regular dad stuff with me." 

He looked down at his bottle. There was a lot more missing than he had thought. " _I_ don't feel bad for him. He hated being terrorized by his dad and then he turned around and did the same shit to us."

"Yeah..." Mandy said. "Yeah, you're right. Feeling bad for him is pointless now, anyway." She saw him looking down at the bottle. "How much more of that do you think you'll be putting away?"

"Fuck." Mickey rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. Enough so I can sleep. I gotta work at ten tomorrow morning and as much as I'm _not_ dealing with any of the logistical shit around dad dying, that doesn't mean people aren't gonna be up in my face about it. I just wanna pass out." 

"Why don't you call off?" Mandy asked. "Tell 'em your dad died, they have to give you the day." At least she was pretty sure about that. They'd be real jackasses not to. "I'm off, so you can sleep in and then I'll make you a good hangover breakfast and we can do something stupid to spend the day."

"Yeah,” Mickey agreed. “Maybe." 

He didn't want to go to work, but he wasn't sure if it wouldn't be better to just go about his normal routine like nothing had happened. He might still tell them his dad died, though, if only to make his coworkers stop trying to initiate inane conversations with him for a few days. Then again, then he would have to explain that he wasn't looking for any sympathy because his dad was a fuckhead, so maybe it wasn't worth it after all. 

\--

As the evening wore on, Mickey didn't realize how wasted he really was until he went to take another drink and there was nothing left in the bottle. Narrowing his eyes at it - which seemed to require more effort than usual - he slowly, elaborately, set it down on the coffee table and nearly over balanced doing so. 

While Mickey had slowly but steadily worked his way through the bottle, Mandy had put the leftovers away and done the dishes to keep herself busy. She really could have gone for another beer, which would hardly have made her drunk, but she refrained. One of them should be totally sober tonight and she knew that Terry's death was hitting Mickey harder in some ways than it was her. Not that he was necessarily sad, but the impact was there. 

She was sitting on the couch with him when he finally finished his whiskey, standing up quickly to take the bottle and get it safely on the table. 

"Okay, come on, you," she said, which was what she'd always said to him back home as well. "Let's get you to bed."

"Yeah. Okay." 

Mickey pushed himself upright and steadied himself on Mandy's shoulder. He let her help him into the bedroom, and he crawled into bed with all of his clothes on, on top of the duvet. He rubbed at his eyes and his hand felt wet when it came away, but he didn't know why or if it was even real. 

"Night, Mandy."

"Yeah, there you go," Mandy said, pulling the covers up over Mickey. She stood by the bed and watched him for a minute, making sure he could breathe, where he'd fallen on to the pillow. Then she set about turning out the lights, making her bed on the couch and using the bathroom. 

When she sat down to go to bed, before she curled up, she pulled out her phone, debating. Then, decided, she sent a text to Ian: 

_Terry's dead._

She had no idea if he'd reply, if he was working, where he even was. But it was less than three minutes later when the reply came in. 

_You shitting me? Are you okay?_

Then, a minute later: 

_How's Mick?_

Ian might not be speaking to her, but she still knew him, and she knew that he'd initially tried not to ask about Mickey but couldn't help himself, which was proof she was doing the right thing. 

_It's... weird I guess. But no shit. Heart attack right in front of Mickey at the Alibi._

She waited, but no more replies came, and she started to lie down. But then she changed her mind. As drunk as Mickey was, if he somehow woke up there was no telling what he'd get into. So, with a sigh, she got up and went to the bedroom, crawling into the bed with her brother, staying on the outside edge to be between him and any escape should he get any wild ideas. She wasn't sure if she'd even be able to sleep, but as soon as she was settled, her eyes were too heavy to keep open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Happy_Schmuell: Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck with us this far! We read every comment and the encouragement, excitement, and helpful critiques mean a lot! We tortured ourselves writing this so we definitely feel your pain! 
> 
> And I had to give out shout out to my co-writer roaroftheninth. We may have written this together, but roaroftheninth has single-handedly done all of the editing. So if this fic makes sense, has any flow, and Ian's bits have no typos... y'all have roaroftheninth to thank! (And believe me, I had typos. Lots.)


	15. Never Supposed to Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my nightmares escaped my head  
> Bar the door, please, don’t let them in  
> You were never supposed to leave  
> Now my head’s splitting at the seams.  
>  \--“Welcome Home, Son”, Radical Face

_It was some time later when Mandy heard a noise at the door - pounding. The heaviness of the fist was instantly recognizable and she knew that Mickey had been wrong, back at the hospital. Terry wasn't dead. He wasn't dead at all. And he'd left the hospital and had found them. And now he was here, and they had to keep him from getting in. "Mickey..." she said, pushing him to wake him up. "Mickey, he's here. Don't let him in! We can't let him in! Don't - "_

" - let him in!" 

Sitting straight up in the bed, Mandy had her hand reached out, on Mickey's shoulder, needing him to wake up. 

Mickey gasped as he startled awake, aware that it was Mandy shouting but not much else. Blindly, he stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over Mandy, dropping to one knee and fumbling in the drawer next to the bed.

He got the light on, gun in his hand, and was looking around wildly in just a handful of seconds. When he realized that there was no one in the room, he swore and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. 

Though he was still fairly drunk, a headache was starting to thrum in his temples. 

"What the fuck? What happened?"

Mandy was breathing hard, nearly gasping. Her hair was matted to her forehead with sleep-sweat. 

"I - " 

The dream was fading now that the lights were on and she could see the gun in Mickey's hand. Even so, when she held her hands out in front of her she could see that they were shaking and there was a tremble in her voice. 

"I was dreaming," she finally said. "Must have been. Terry - he was here, he wasn't dead." 

"Oh, fuck." Mickey came over to the bed, and sat down on the side of it, not so close that he was up in Mandy's space - something she might not be keen on, depending on the exact nature of the dream - but close enough that maybe she would feel a little safer. 

"Fuckin' zombie Terry, huh?" He supposed he couldn't blame her. Most of the time, they did their best to bury most of their childhood. Today, it had all come roaring to the surface. 

"Worse," Mandy said. "Real, not-ever-been-dead Terry." 

She rubbed her hands up and down over her face, pushing her bangs back off of her forehead. After a couple of deep breaths - and Mickey's steady presence beside her - she could feel her heart rate slowing again. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I didn't even realize it was a dream until you turned on the lights." 

"Yeah, I know. I could hear it in your voice. I thought someone was hurting you." Mickey got up to stow the gun back in its drawer, moving slower now that there was no emergency. "He's definitely dead. But if you wanna make extra sure, I'm pretty sure they'd have to give us his body if we asked for it. You could stick a pin in his eye."

"Rather use it for target practice," Mandy said with a weak smile. She reached out and took hold of his hand for barely a second, a little thank-you. 

"Alright, I'm supposed to be looking after your drunk ass, so get back to bed. I'm okay now." 

"I'm gonna get a glass of water. One sec." It was growth, Mickey figured, that he wasn't trying to wash away his whiskey headache with beer. 

He returned from the bathroom across the hall a moment later and climbed into bed again. 

"Did you come sleep in here because you thought I was gonna wake up and do something dumb?"

"Yeah," Mandy admitted. "Easier to stop you before you've built up any momentum. But, Jesus, the way you got out of this bed just now, I'm thinking maybe I was just fooling myself."

"Yeah, well. I thought we were in trouble. I was on autopilot, didn't even think about what I was doing."

Mickey always woke up swinging if he was startled awake. He was sure Mandy did, too. 

After a moment, thinking about the fact that she had really come in here to help, he added: "Thanks."

\--

It was two days after Terry had died that Ian came back to the South Side, back to Chicago, back to the state of Illinois. He'd only been in touch with the family and, briefly, Mandy, but even to them he'd given few details about where he was and what he was doing. All he'd done was assure them (honestly) that he was taking his meds. He'd lost some weight and looked like he was either not sleeping enough or sleeping way too much, and when he'd stopped in to see Lip, he could see his brother wanted to comment, but hadn't. Ian's counselor - virtual video sessions were a wonder - told him that he was mourning, that even though Mickey hadn't technically died, the way Ian had to deal with it was similar to if he had. There was no way around it but through and Ian was... well, he was struggling. But he'd not jumped off a roof or gone off his meds, so if he'd had to have his meds changed and upped to help him deal with the constant 'depressive state' he'd fallen into, so be it. 

His counselor had also said that space and time away from Mickey was a good thing but, well. 

He'd gone to the mall, but Mickey wasn't working. So his next stop was the Alibi. He'd kind of figured Mickey might want to go back there, to show himself that Terry croaking right in front of him, right there, wasn't affecting him. Sure enough, as soon as Ian walked in the door he saw Mickey sitting at the bar, Kev behind it, doing a double-take when he saw Ian. He cut off a greeting though, as even Kev could put two and two together and figure out why Ian was there. He walked up behind Mickey, stopping at the next stool. 

"Hey, Mick." 

Mickey started almost imperceptibly when Ian said his name. He hadn't been aware that he'd been a little tense since he had walked in the door, but now that he noticed it, he made a concerted effort to relax his shoulders without delving too deeply into why he was feeling that way. 

Downing his whiskey, Mickey cast a glance over his shoulder at Ian. "Did Mandy text you, or does good news travel fast?"

Ian took a seat at the stool next to Mickey and asked Kev for a Coke. 

"She texted me," he answered. "She's working now so I'm sure I'll catch up with her later. Figured in the meantime I'd see if you were at any of your usual spots. If they were even still your usuals." 

Kev brought the drink and Ian took a long swallow. 

"Hell of a thing," he said, after a moment.

Mickey huffed a laugh that wasn't. 

"Yeah."

It _was_ a hell of a thing.

He looked down at his hands, folded on the bar. If he squinted, the knuckle tattoos didn't have to be his; they looked just as much like someone else's. "You back or just visiting?"

"Just visiting." Ian hadn't planned to come back this soon, had missed a couple of birthdays and Gallagher get-togethers. He'd argued with himself all night at work after Mandy had texted him, but in the end, he'd known since he'd gotten the texts that he'd be coming. "Just wanted to check in." 

"I'm fine. Mandy's fine." Mickey knew that it mattered, that it was a significant thing that Ian had come back. But he didn't want to have to try and explain the way he was feeling. It was different keeping Mandy close, because she, of course, already knew. "They're gonna bury him tomorrow morning, I think. So if you wanna piss on his grave, you can do it while you're in town." 

"No thanks. I don't need to do that." Ian nursed his drink in silence for a moment. "When Monica died it was like being hit by a truck and at the same time felt like absolutely nothing had changed. When we thought Frank was going to die, it was more like... the end of a long road trip. Finally got where we wanted to go but it didn't feel good, like I thought it would." 

"Ian. I don't need whatever this is. It ain't that complicated." Mickey didn't know why he was getting defensive, but he was. He could feel his shoulders tensing back up, despite his best efforts. "He was here, now he's not. Everyone's better off. I'm not going to the funeral. I'm gonna be at work, and then I'm gonna go home and have a beer, like I always do, and life is gonna go the fuck on." 

Ian's jaw clenched briefly but after a breath he relaxed it again. "Sure, Mick. Real simple. That's great. On the other hand, it might not be simple, and that's okay, too. I don't think it's simple for Mandy." 

He hadn't talked to her since she'd texted about her work schedule so technically she probably didn’t know he was back, though he doubted she would be surprised. 

"You let me worry about Mandy." Mickey could tell that he had gotten under Ian's skin, but he wasn’t sure if he had meant to. "Is this why you came back? To make sure I wasn't losing my shit over my dad dying? Is that really what you thought I was gonna be doing?" 

"Losing your shit? No, that's not what I thought." Ian had finished his drink and when Kev came back over, he held up two fingers and gave a side-nod to Mickey, ordering another for both of them. "I'm just checking in, that's all. Mandy said you saw it happen?"

"You could say that."

Mickey didn't acknowledge Ian ordering the drink, but he did drink it when it arrived. 

"He was in the middle of one of his rants, you know, hitting all the highlights. I'm a faggot, I don't know how good I had it with him as a dad, I deserve to be dead, he should've killed me when I was a kid." Mickey waved a hand, as if to say, _et cetera_. "And then he worked himself into such a homicidal frothing fuckin' rage that he had a massive heart attack and died. It was fuckin' instant." Mickey snapped his fingers. "Boom." 

"Couldn't have happened to a better guy," Ian said dryly. "Died doing what he loved - drinking and gay bashing." Terry was consistent to the very, very, bitter end.

Mickey tipped his glass toward Ian. “That’s what I said.”

"I guess the Grim Reaper got sick of waiting around for someone else to take care of him and finally just did it himself,” Ian mused. “Still. Had to be weird, seeing it happen." 

"Nah.” Mickey looked down at his glass. “Just wasn't expecting it. Thought he'd outlive me out of fucking spite."

They let a silence settle for a second or two. 

"Remember when you were pissed at me for going to see him and I told you about his working theory?” Mickey asked. “That you made me gay with your magic dick? He brought that shit up again. So fuckin' stupid. He found out that we were - apart, or whatever, and he definitely thought the fuckin' spell was broken. That's why he even came up to me in the first place."

Ian offered up a soft laugh. 

"Your dad liked to talk a lot about my dick, I guess. Probably infuriated him to hear that it isn't just _my_ dick that you liked." It hadn't surprised Ian at all to hear that Terry blamed him. Easier to think Mickey was weak than gay. "Let me guess. It was you telling him about all the other guys you're fucking that finally did him in."

Mickey couldn't tell if Ian was fishing, but he was honest in his answer. "Nope. It was telling him that he was a shitty dad and we would've been better off without him. Who would've thought he gave a single shit, huh?" 

Mickey rested the tips of his fingers on his glass. "I think you're overestimating how much I wanna climb on strange dicks when you're not around. I did tell him I've fucked other guys before, though. Wanted to be real clear that I wasn't gonna stop being gay if I wasn't with you." 

Ian _had_ sort of been fishing. 

"So, it's only when I _am_ around that you want climb on strange dicks?" he asked, tone a little lighter so Mickey would know it was a joke. "He was a shitty dad, though. No doubt about that. Still weird when one of your folks dies, just to think you'll never see them again, that they don't exist at all. Hard to wrap your head around."

"I guess," Mickey said, in a tone of voice that expressed cynicism. "I mean, I did kind of think he would outlive me, but mostly because he kept threatening to murder me. But just him being gone? He was gone a lot. And it was better when he was." 

Even when Mickey had been interested in staying in his dad's good graces, it had definitely been easier to relax in the house when he wasn't there. 

"I got Milkovich cousins and shit calling me all day... probably trying to hook me into this funeral shit. But I'm not doing it."

"There's really a funeral?" Ian sounded surprised. "I guess I just assumed... I didn't realize any of the extended family cared enough to do that."

Sure, he knew about Sandy and that other half-sister (half-brother?) they had but other than that he didn't know much about the other Milkoviches. 

"Of course there's a funeral." Mickey could already imagine it, probably not a dissimilar scene to when Terry used to get out of prison and everyone crawled out of the woodwork to celebrate. "Probably at the Ukrainian church. Milkoviches I've never heard of and Terry's drinking buddies and prison friends crawling all over the place. A fuckin’ swastika tattoo convention. Iggy texted me to ask if I was going so I'm assuming him and Colin and Joey are."

"Is it crazy that I... almost want to go?" Ian asked. "Not to go and cry at the casket - obviously - but because I'm oddly and sickly curious as to what a funeral for Terry Milkovich would be like. Like, what the fuck are people going to say? Is anyone _sad_ that he's dead?" 

He swiveled on his bar stool for a second, not wanting Mickey to get the idea that he'd just come to Terry-bash. Honestly, if you'd have asked him a week ago, he'd have said he probably would want a party when Terry died. But now that it had happened, it was more of just a feeling of _finally_. 

For Mickey’s part, he wasn't going to entertain any ideas of going to Terry's funeral, for any reason. Even if he somehow miraculously wasn't _persona non grata_ there, he just wasn't interested. 

"Believe it or not, some people liked my dad," he said dryly. "Or at least, felt some loyalty to him, because of family or prison gangs or whatever. You just never got that side of him because he thought Frank was trash and wrote the rest of you off with him. But the guy could be fuckin' charming if he wanted." 

"Well, Frank _is_ trash, so I guess Terry got one thing right in his life." Having been to prison, Ian understood how loyalties could form and all. But he'd never really carried any of those with him when he'd gotten out. Considering that Terry spent more time in prison than out, though, it made sense that Terry might have his version of friends that he'd done time with. Each and every one of them was probably as big an asshole as he'd been. 

"Gonna try to lay claim to the house?” Ian asked. “Bet you could get a couple hundred bucks for it." 

Mickey shook his head. "I don't want the house. Place is a liability. And even if I did, I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume I'm not in the will."

Almost definitely true, Ian thought. "Did you tell Svetlana? Not that she'd come for the funeral or anything, but she might want to know." 

"No, I didn't tell her. Not yet. Supposed to call on Monday anyway so I'll tell her then."

Ian hesitated. "How's, um... how's Yev?"

"Uh, yeah, he's good. He's good." 

Mickey remembered what Mandy had said, about Ian being so hands on. About Ian loving the kid because he looked like Mickey. 

"He's doing good at school,” he elaborated. “Likes math, like his old man. Svetlana says he can be a real shit disturber if he wants, so. Also like me. When he comes on the phone, he likes to tell me about all his little friends and whatever bullshit they've been up to. Sounds like he's happy. And normal." 

"Good. A Milkovich finally makes it out of the South Side. He still a tow-head? When he was small, he was so fair, had those big blue eyes." Ian wanted to ask if Mickey had any recent pictures, but he was afraid Mickey wouldn't want to show him, and he didn't want to make their conversation any more awkward than it already was. But, man, he'd loved that kid. Fucked up monumentally, but he'd loved him. 

"Getting a little darker now, but yeah. Still blond." Mickey pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his photo gallery, holding out the phone to Ian. "He's gonna be okay. Svetlana is a good mom. One parent out of two is better than what most of us got. And they've got him in this fancy school. Probably gonna go to college." 

Ian shot Mickey a grateful look and took the phone, unable to keep from smiling when he looked at Yev. 

"Fuck... he still looks like you," he said, his voice soft. He bit his lip as he spent a few seconds just taking the little guy in before handing the phone back, avoiding meeting Mickey's gaze directly. "If he gets into college, means he's smart like his old man, too."

Mickey didn't meet Ian's eyes, either. Something about the way Ian had spoken, so softly, pulled something tighter inside of Mickey's chest. 

"Yeah, yeah. Difference is, he likes school," he said, brushing off the compliment. "He said he wants to visit the International Space Station. I told him you gotta study a lot to be an astronaut and he said that studying is easy, and did I know that a day on the ISS is 90 minutes so you get to see 16 sunsets a day. I didn't know that, but it sounds like he's learning cooler shit at school than we did."

"Yeah, maybe if they taught cool stuff like that when we were in school you'd have been more interested." Looking back, Ian thought he'd never been so much actually interested as just determined to get into West Point. He'd be hard-pressed now to name a favourite subject or class. 

"Shit, can you imagine if someday he does it? If a kid from the South Side made it into space? That would be epic." 

"Fuck, yeah. He'll probably change his mind a hundred times before he grows up but. It would definitely be cool."

Mickey rapped his knuckles gently on the bar during the awkward silence that fell between them after that.

"You go to see Lip and his kid already?" he asked.

"Saw Lip for a minute, but haven't seen the kid yet. I'll swing by there later or tomorrow before I head back." Ian didn't specify where 'back' was and didn't plan to. Lip was the only one who knew, and that was just in case of emergencies. "He sends me pictures and shit, though. Same with Deb and Franny." 

Mickey nodded along. It was good that everyone was keeping in touch; Ian was a family guy and needed that more than most. And Mickey knew perfectly well that the reason why Ian wasn't home with his family was him. 

"So you're leaving tomorrow? You been, uh... doing okay?" 

It was a question that Ian would maybe laugh at, Mickey realized after he said it, but he didn't know how else to ask what Ian had been up to, and the last time Mickey had seen him, he hadn't been doing so great. 

"Yeah, probably," Ian said, running the tip of his finger through the condensation from his glass now pooled on the bar top. "I don't have a plan written in stone, have a day or two of wiggle room." 

Getting off work at his job wasn't hard, though they preferred when he was there, of course. He just didn't get paid. But he was doing alright at the moment, so if he ended up crashing at Lip's an extra night, it would be okay. 

"Taking my meds, if that's what you're asking. Not doing coke."

"That wasn't what I was asking." Or not _just_ what he was asking, anyway. "You don't answer Mandy's texts and she gets worried. You found a place to live, obviously.”

Mickey wasn't going to ask if he was seeing anyone because it sure as shit wasn't his business, but he was curious.

"She doesn't need to worry," Ian said quickly, though he wasn't annoyed. He wanted to make sure Mickey passed that on. "If I'm ever not okay, Lip will know, and he knows to let her know, too. So tell her everything is fine." 

“Are you... working?” Mickey asked. “And... feeling okay?" 

Ian weighed just how much to tell Mickey. "Yeah, I got a tiny place above this bakery-slash-deli thing, got a job working nights. I work, I go home and sleep, I get a sandwich from the deli and watch some TV, go back to work. Et cetera and et cetera. Lip said Mandy got a job, ran into her at the mall. Good for her."

_Got a job working nights._ Mickey didn't push on that, even though he wanted to. Ian had said he was taking his meds and not doing coke, so that was what mattered. 

He tried not to think about how much Ian had enjoyed being an EMT. 

"Yeah, Mandy's doing really good. Fuckin' finally. Soon we'll probably have enough money to get a two-bedroom so that she doesn't have to sleep on the couch. I don't think she's been in contact with fuckhead at all so he doesn't know where to find her. So far, so good."

"Oh, she's living with you?” Ian asked. “I didn't know that." Of course, he was glad to hear that Mandy was doing well, and he was pleased she and Mickey were living together. It might not be good for either of them to be on their own right now. But he also had to bite back a sharp word of jealousy; why was _he_ the only one stuck living by himself, away from everyone he loved? 

"Yeah. She came right after I moved out of the house,” Mickey said. “I think she thought that she was doing me a solid, and, I mean. If that's what it takes to get her away from that shitshow she was living before, then she can think that all she wants."

Ian smiled a little. Leave it to Mickey to try and pull it off that he was only letting Mandy think she was helping him. Ian might not be in contact with either of them but he knew enough to know that Mickey needed someone right now, and Mandy was the best person for the job. That's why he'd stopped texting or calling her, wanting to give her the space to be able to be in Mickey's corner without a constant conflict of interest. 

"Does she get you free cookies?"   
  
Yeah, Lip had said where Mandy worked and Ian knew full well how much Mickey liked the cookies there.

Mickey shrugged a little. "Yeah, a time or two. She doesn't have to worry about her boss giving her shit because he's real into her. She doesn't seem to mind, so. Whatever."

"Into her and she doesn't mind?” Ian asked. “That's - that could be something. You ever meet him? Does he seem good enough for her?"

Shit, if Mandy finding a good job and a decent guy came out of all of the shit between him and Mickey, then maybe it wasn't all a big fucking mess with no silver lining at all. 

"He's alright,” Mickey said. “I've seen him around at work and he doesn't treat the kids that work there like shit, so there's that. Would be nice for her to date someone with a job who isn't a fuckin' loser, but I can't say anything because she doesn't want my opinions on her love life. Which is fair enough." 

"Yeah, the last time you interfered in her love life, you were hunting me to give me a beat down. So maybe she's onto something, telling you to mind your own business." If you'd have told Ian then, when he was hiding all over town, that in less than a decade he'd be _marrying_ Mickey Milkovich...

"Hey, she _asked_ me to give you a beatdown. That's all on her." Mickey thought that it was important that that be clarified. 

"How do you know? You don't remember!" Ian was smiling. "The way I look at it, you already had a thing for me, but in true Mickey fashion, you decided to try and kill me instead."

"Well, you probably had it coming. I've seen the pictures, you bowl-cut wearing Howdy Doody motherfucker. Ain't no way I already had a thing." 

"You fucked me with that haircut, let's not forget that," Ian said with a little laugh. 

Mickey rubbed his nose with his thumb. "Speaking of sisters. I hear from yours, sometimes. She's the one who told me you left town."

"Who, Deb? Yeah, she's kind of shit at keeping secrets, I guess. Plus, she's got a soft spot for you, I think."

"Debbie has a soft spot? Maybe. I think it's more that you're her favourite sibling. And she's kind of a romantic, I guess. About us."

Ian wasn't sure if Mickey was right about him being Debbie's favourite, but they did have a pretty special relationship. "Yeah, she definitely was always pulling for us, that's for sure. Missed our wedding so that we could get married."

"Tell me that story again?” Mickey asked. “About the wedding?" 

Maybe the last thing Ian wanted to do was talk about their wedding. It had been the happiest day of his life, but now it was one of the most painful to think about. 

But Mickey had asked. 

"Well, it was at that Polish place, because Terry burned down our planned venue. And the dead owner's wife probably wouldn't have agreed because the old guy was a shitty homophobe. So, we pretended you were marrying Deb. She had a big ol' dress and everything. And she pretended to have cold feet and kept the woman occupied in a back room during the ceremony. And... the ceremony went perfectly, it really did. And by the reception, the owner was more than happy to come and get drunk with Frank. I don't think she even noticed me and you dancing."

"Fuck, yeah. Go Deb." If Mickey noticed that it made Ian uncomfortable to talk about the wedding, he didn't remark on it. "Man. Whenever people say that they think being gay is a choice, I just want to show them what a giant fuckin' headache it is. It's none of anyone's damn business, but everyone's got something to say about it. Pain in my ass." 

Mickey shook his head and tipped his glass back, finishing his drink.

"Thought you weren't in any rush to get anything in your ass," Ian quipped, raising an eyebrow at Mickey over the edge of his glass as he took a drink. 

Mickey flipped him off.

"I never really thought of it as a bad thing, being gay,” Ian mused. “I mean, my dad didn't try to kill me for it, so there's that, I guess. But even with some of the shit that goes along with it, I've always been pretty okay with it. I wouldn't change." 

"Yeah, well." Mickey shrugged. "I might. Can't say for sure because I can't base my decision on - everything that's ever happened to me. But there were a lot of times when it would've made things easier not to be. No offense, I guess."

Ian simply nodded. Mickey meant no offense but that didn't mean it didn't still sting. Which was stupid, he told himself. Mickey ending their marriage was a pretty strong sign Ian wasn't enough to make him happy. What difference did it make if he said he might change being gay if he could? 

"Saw you finished your therapy. How's the arm?" 

"It's fine." Mickey stretched it out and bent it again, to show him. "It does all the shit that it used to do, except first thing in the morning. Can't pick up a coffee cup until I get it warmed up. I, uh. Well. You were right, about the physio.”

"Good, I'm glad. There was no good reason for you not to do whatever you needed to, you know? It was a bad injury but fixable. So, it's good you got it fixed." 

“I'm not gonna use your insurance anymore,” Mickey promised.

Ian shrugged.

"Me either," he said with an almost-laugh. "Don't have it anymore. So, if you get yourself shot up again, you're on your own this time."

"Yeah, well. Not planning on getting myself into situations where I get shot, so it shouldn't be a problem." Mickey meant that. There was the usual amount of trouble, and then there was cartel-level trouble. He didn't need the latter.

"Good. You've spent enough time locked up. You don't need to be a lifer." 

They'd agreed to that, once they had gotten married. They were both going to do their damnedest to stay out of prison, to not let that be the pattern of the rest of their lives. 

"Why aren't you an EMT?” Mickey asked. “Why are you ‘working nights’?"

"Well, most places won't hire a guy with a record,” Ian replied. “Even with my solid recommendation from my supervisor back here. So, I'm keeping my eyes and ears open where I'm living, but as of yet, no EMT jobs open that don't have plenty of non-ex-cons applying."

"That's fuckin' bullshit." Mickey shook his head. Ian was so good at his job. It didn't surprise him that he couldn't find work with a record - Mickey knew exactly what it was like to be that fucked - but it was disappointing. 

"You should come back here, man. Your family misses you. You could have your old job back." 

"We'll see," Ian said with a shrug. He wanted to come home, of course he did. But after about a half hour in Mickey's presence, he knew he wasn't ready. He was finally able to sleep at night without a half of a beer, but other than that he didn't feel like he was making any progress on healing. Mostly, with the increased meds, he simply felt numb. Seeing Mickey, though, cut right through that and he was pretty sure he'd be needing that half-beer to sleep tonight. 

"South Side people always end up back here sooner or later, right?" 

Mickey tilted his head in concurrence. "I did," he said. "But I'm good at life here. I've got shit figured out. This is where I belong." He watched Ian. "You wanted to travel the world and shit, right? In the army? You don't need to be stuck in the South Side. You could figure out your shit anywhere. But I'm just saying. If you wanna come back and you need me to stay away from your corner of the neighbourhood, I can do that."

"No, no, no," Ian said, waving his hand to dismiss Mickey's offer. Again, he knew Mickey had the best of intentions with what he was saying, but it still cut deep. How the fuck was he supposed to live there knowing that the man who'd married him, the man who left him, was walking distance away but making the conscious effort to never see him? "You're doing good and so is Mandy. I've, you know, I've got a routine where I am now. It's better this way." 

It was time for him to go. He'd wanted to make sure Mickey was alright, and he had. Soon, the conversation would run out and it was better to leave while he was still mostly holding it together. 

Ian pulled his wallet from his pocket and pulled out enough cash to cover his two drinks, the refill he'd gotten Mickey, and a tip for Kev.

Mickey watched him without saying anything. He could tell he had said the wrong thing, but he didn't regret putting it out there. He didn't want to think about Ian staying away solely on his account. 

"I'm gonna try to see Mandy tomorrow but if I don't get to, you'll give her a hug for me?” Ian asked. “Tell her I'm fine?"

"You better see her," Mickey warned. "I'll be at work tomorrow morning, but Mandy will be home. Don't leave town without seeing her. She needs to see you're okay." 

"I'll text her tomorrow, see if she wants to do lunch or something," Ian promised. There was absolutely no chance he'd be going by their apartment to visit. Honestly, as much as he loved Mandy, he wasn't looking forward to spending time with her. He knew it would just be an awkward and uncomfortable dance around the Mickey-Milkovich-shaped elephant in the room. 

"Do you need anything?" he asked Mickey. As painful as it was being with him, if Mickey needed anything from him, Ian wouldn't say no.

"What? No. No, I'm - I'm good." 

Mickey didn't know what he could ask Ian for that was fair to ask. "You just, uh... take care of yourself. And, uh. Thanks. For coming back. You didn't have to. You knew me and him weren't close." 

"Yeah, I know. But when Monica died, I saw how each one of us still kind of had to... deal. Even Fiona and Lip. And neither of them had a good relationship with her." 

It was never cut and dry, Ian had learned. No matter how much someone might want it to be. 

"I'll be in town at least until tomorrow," he said, looking steadily past Mickey instead of at him. "So, um. If you need anything or, like... if there's anything I can do, just..." 

The numbness from the meds had not only masked some of his hurt, they'd covered up just how fucking lonely he was. But now he was all too aware. 

" _Fuck_ , Ian." Mickey finally understood what he meant, and he rubbed his face rather than respond right away. He couldn't exactly take Ian up on that, not when Ian could hardly stand to be in the same town as him for twenty-four fucking hours as it was. "Go see your family. Okay? You were right. My dad being gone is not as easy as we thought it would be. But I'll figure it out. I got it." 

Ian leaned on the bar, calling out a goodbye to Kev, telling him to kiss the girls and give V his love. Then, his eyes flicked to Mickey.

"Yeah, well. You've got my number." 

He looked away again as he stood and shoved his wallet back in his pocket. "In case you don't figure it out or... you just want to forget for a while." 

He was a goddamn fool, and he knew it. 

\--

Mickey didn't call Ian that night. It wasn't that the thought didn't cross his mind, but each time it did, he just had another drink and tried to put it out of his head. He had been pretty drunk the night before, too, and of course, he had gotten absolutely fucking annihilated the night that Terry died. He thought, _it's probably not a good idea to let this become a habit_. 

But it wasn't enough to make him stop drinking. 

Calling Ian, he knew, would be another bad choice, not least because he already felt like shit about the fact that Ian had had to _leave town_ to get away from him. He didn't need to add to the poisoned well, didn't need to give Ian more reasons to fucking hate him. And he didn't need to assist with anyone else's self-destructive behaviour, thanks, because he was pretty fucking busy with his own.

He ended up going to bed early. His last two thoughts before he went to sleep were, _Ian's still wearing his rings_ and _tomorrow they're burying my dad._ He curled up around his heart like it was a wound and made himself sleep.

  
\--

  
When Mickey woke up, it was light out but still early. It had always been that way; he couldn't sleep for shit once the hangover started to kick in. He sat up, making an audible noise of dismay at the fierce crack of the headache behind his eye. 

When he stood up, fumbling blindly toward the bathroom, things started to take shape slowly, the way they do after a night of heavy drinking when the brain isn't firing on all cylinders yet - but the things in his mind felt nebulous and non-chronological. 

Why wasn't Ian here? He couldn't still be mad that Mickey had forgotten that they were in love and ditched him, because Ian had married him after that. No - the wedding had come first. No - prison had come first. 

_Which_ time _in prison? Wait - what the fuck?_

Mickey pushed up the toilet seat without seeing it and threw up until there was nothing left in his stomach. Then he threw up again, until it was only bitter bile. After that, he sat down against the corner of the tub, breathing fast and shallow, eyes closed. The bathroom floor felt nice and cool to the touch. His brain felt like it was churning as much as his stomach. Things were whirling and trying to settle into place, then realizing they were wrong and rejiggering themselves all over again. 

When had he worked at the store with Ian? That felt like a long time ago. Wasn't he supposed to work today? Was it at the mall? 

_Terry's dead._ That strange, immutable weight settled, pinning him down in the heavy present. Now he had a reference point for the rest. 

And then: 

_Ian's at the house. Ian's leaving today._

And then _everything_ became a deafening clamour and it was too fucking much. He could hardly breathe. Slowly, as though if he moved too fast he would die, Mickey let himself down on the tiles and pressed his burning forehead against the floor. His head felt like it was in danger of cracking apart, so he pressed a palm to his temple and tried not to let it.

He didn't know how long he laid on the floor like that. Eventually he made himself sit up, then stand. White-knuckling the side of the sink, he knocked back four painkillers and a glass of water and just leaned there for a long moment, not looking at himself in the mirror. 

Making his way back to his room, he got dressed without paying much attention to what he put on. Even the fact that his head was spinning heinously was not enough to detract from the thing that was at the core of him, running him like an emergency battery that wouldn’t quit: _Ian_. 

He brushed his teeth on autopilot, and when he made the mistake of meeting his own gaze in the mirror, he realized that he'd vomited so hard that he had burst a blood vessel in his eye. 

The fresh air outside of the apartment snapped him into alertness, or whatever passed for it when his head and heart were full of dizzying memories that kept pushing to the forefront, unwanted, and demanding his attention, faster than he could make them make sense. It didn't really matter, anyway; the specifics, the sounds and visuals, weren't as important as the emotions. And those didn't need sorting. They were complete on their own. He realized, for the first time since the crash, how truly terrifying the emptiness had been now that he understood the alternative. Had he really felt _nothing_ , compared to all of this? 

His heart was jack-hammering, racing, but it always got a little funny when he was hungover, so he couldn’t pin it on the memories exactly.

Patting his jacket pockets, Mickey realized that he wasn't wearing his rings and didn't have them on him, like a _fucking idiot_. Why had he taken them off? 

He thought of dozens more questions like that on his way to the Gallagher house, even though he tried to make himself give up for now - it was impossible to answer them by sorting through everything at once, and his hangover was decidedly not helping. 

When he got to the house, he plunged through the gate and hurried up the stairs. Even the reverberations from his knock made his fucking _eyes_ rattle but he tried not to focus on that.

It took a second round of knocking before the door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey team, we have been having a bit of an issue with anonymous commenter(s) so we've had to turn off anonymous commenting. I'm sorry about that. This is my first foray into Shameless fanfic and I'll admit that I have never run into a similar issue in any other fandom. It has kind of made the experience less-than-positive which is super unfortunate because some of you have also left some of the most insightful, thoughtful comments I've ever had on a story. I'll leave my Tumblr handle at the end of the last chapter so you can drop me an ask if you don't have an AO3 account.


	16. Nothing Makes You Hurt Like Hurting Who You Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing makes you hurt like hurting who you love,  
> And no amount of words will ever be enough.  
> I looked you in the eyes, saw that I was lost;  
> For every question "why", you were my "because".  
>  \--"Walls", Louis Tomlinson

Mickey had to look down to see who had opened the door.

Franny. 

She looked up at him, taking in the state he was in with wide eyes. Apparently with Lip sober and Ian not around, she didn't see as many drunk – or deathly, deathly hungover – people as she used to. It was mostly just Frank, probably, nowadays. Still, after studying him quizzically, she finally nodded. 

"Uncle Ian." 

It was a statement, not a question, like she had considered all of the options and had come up with the only likely answer of who Mickey was there to see. She turned around and walked into the house, expecting him to follow into the living room where cartoons of some kind were playing softly on the television. 

"Will you get me the juice? No one else is awake and I can't reach."

"Uh, yeah. Sure thing, kid." 

For some reason, this unexpected and slightly surreal interaction with a small child felt like it fit exactly in place with the morning Mickey was having so far. So, obligingly, he went into the kitchen and poured them both a glass of orange juice. 

When Franny had hers, she went into the living room again and plunked herself on the carpet in front of the cartoons.

"You shouldn't sit so close, you're gonna hurt your eyes," Mickey said automatically, something his mom had said a lot when they were kids. Thinking about it now, he wasn't sure that it was true.

"I won't tell if you don't," Franny replied with the air of a child who had said this very thing before. She was not looking at Mickey, already becoming absorbed again in her cartoon.

"Is Ian up yet?"

"No," Franny said deliberately, looking at him and coming damn close to rolling her eyes. "I _said_ no one else was up. Is your head still funny? Mom said you got really hurt and you had to go somewhere else to get better."

She turned back to the TV, not waiting for an answer. "Uncle Ian is in Fiona's room."

Mickey gave her the eyebrows instead of flipping her off, since she was just a kid, after all. Downing his juice in one swallow, he thought about it for a second and then went and poured another one. Ian could be a big kid sometimes and liked juice better than water with his meds.

Going quietly up the stairs, Mickey crossed the hall and stood in front of the doorway to Fiona's old room. His old room, too. The thought gave him pause - fuck, what if Ian didn't want to see him? - but after a moment, he knocked anyway.

From inside the room came Ian's sleepy groan. 

"Fran, I told you. You can have juice later. Let people sleep." 

Ian had had his half of a beer the night before and was still mostly asleep. But he knew the house, every creak and grunt of it, and he knew that the person who had knocked had not walked away. Franny was a true Gallagher - stubborn as fuck. 

"Come on in, then,” Ian mumbled, giving in. “Sleep a little more with me and then I'll get your juice. Deal?"

Mickey thought about saying something. Instead, he took a breath, trying to take some of the silence and stillness of that early-morning house and fit it inside of him, to quiet the din of everything else. It didn't quite work, but it helped. Then he opened the door.

Ian was, as usual, tangled in a mess of blankets, and the familiar sight of that mess of red hair sticking up in every direction made Mickey's heart ache. 

"I brought you some juice," he said. "For your pills. If you want it." 

Ian's eyes flew open in surprise. He got himself up into a sitting position, pushing a hand back through his hair. Like Franny had, he took in Mickey's appearance. 

"Mick, hey. Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

Mickey looked like absolute shit, definitely hungover. That burst blood vessel in his eye made it look like he’d been in a fight. But there was something else in his eyes, in his expression, that made Ian's stomach uneasy. 

"I - " The sound of Ian's voice saying his name made Mickey choke off his words. He couldn't look at him for a few seconds, and his throat felt too tight to breathe properly. 

He put the juice down on the dresser and jammed his trembling hands into his pockets. It didn't help. 

"I fuckin' - I know where I'm supposed to be. I woke up and I - remembered."

Ian squinted as if that would help him in his state of still waking up to understand what Mickey was saying. 

"I - okay." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat up a little straighter. "What did you remember? Where are you supposed to be?"

"Here with you, dumbass." Mickey thought his eyes might be wet, but he had never cried - not properly - in front of Ian and he wasn't about to start. "Unless you meant what you said, when you said you didn't want me to come back even if I got my memories back." 

Ian froze, staring at Mickey. The swirling in his stomach was now a serious threat that he might throw up. 

"What do you remember, Mickey?" he asked again, voice just above a whisper. He knew what it sounded like Mickey was saying but he really fucking needed it spelled out for him. 

"All of it. I think. Or, fuck - enough of it. I realized halfway here I didn't have my rings or else I would have them on." 

Mickey didn't like the look on Ian's face, like he was feeling sick. But he knew that he didn't deserve a better reaction than that, not after everything. "Ian, I'm sorry. Fuck me, I'm so sorry." 

Now it was a toss-up, a contest to see if he would throw up or cry first. Ian looked down at his own hand, the rings that he'd never taken off still in place. 

"Are you - " His voice gave and he had to start again. "Are you sure? You wouldn't just say you - " 

No, of course Mickey wouldn't do that. 

"Tell me something you remember," he finished, instead.

"I - " That was difficult, being put on the spot, and Mickey waved a frustrated hand. His head hurt so fucking much and he still wasn't sure if everything was in order. But he would try. 

"I remember the Hawaiian shirt, from the suitcase. And the - the guy coming by the house with it, and it took you like, twelve minutes to figure out that I was lying about going on a trip to keep the suitcase. Because you fuckin' suck at scams." He rubbed at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I remember - we didn't even fuckin' talk about kids until our wedding day and you said you wanted one or two. And that freaked me out but I said yes. Because there wasn't anything that was gonna be a dealbreaker for me."

By the time Mickey finished speaking, Ian's breathing was ragged and his eyes were very wet. He still wasn't convinced he wouldn't throw up. His first thought was, _I'm not ready for this._

He'd assumed that if Mickey's memory came back, it would be this moment of overwhelming happiness. But in reality, it was just overwhelming. And terrifying. What if tomorrow Mickey's head snatched it all away again? What if Mickey now agreed that he and Ian were too much work to stay together? 

It was so, so good to recognize the real Mickey in his voice again. But it was also really fucking scary. 

"You should sit down," he said, scooting over and holding the blankets back for Mickey to get under them, too. 

Mickey didn't need to be told twice. He pulled off his boots and came over, climbing into bed next to Ian. He was still a little worried that he would cry, especially now that Ian was on the verge too, so he reached for Ian's hand and held it tightly for a long moment without saying anything. He didn't know if Ian wanted him to touch him any more than that. It felt like a lot already, when he compared it to the last few months. 

"I woke up and I didn't know why I wasn't with you. At first. And then I just... I was sick and I just laid on the bathroom floor for a long time. I mean, I'm hungover, that's why I was sick. But it was like trying to put the world's biggest fuckin' jigsaw puzzle together. Everything came back but it wasn't in its - its place." 

Ian was gripping Mickey's hand so tightly he knew that his knuckles must have gone white but he couldn't bring himself to look, or to look at Mickey. He'd never been hunting, but he wondered if this was it felt like, not wanting to move much or make too much noise for fear of the moment being destroyed or scaring the deer - or, in this case, Mickey's memory - away again. 

"How...?" he started to ask, but he didn't bother finishing because he knew Mickey wouldn't have the answer. Why hadn't this happened months ago, before Mickey had moved out, before they'd both said and done things that had hurt the other?

Finally, he looked over at Mickey. 

"Are you okay?" 

It was much easier to shift the focus on to how Mickey was holding up than to start unloading and sorting through all of what he was feeling himself. 

"No." Mickey answered without thinking about it, and it felt honest. "I mean, I'm not - " He rethought out his answer. "I guess, technically, I'm okay. But I feel like shit."

In more ways than one. In every way you _could_ feel like shit. He could feel also how tense Ian was and he knew why. 

"Fuck me, of course this would happen when I'm hungover to shit." He wouldn't have been equipped for this on a normal day, and now? Forget it. "I'm sorry, Ian. I didn't mean all that shit I said. I didn't know what I was talking about."

"No," Ian said immediately. "No, Mick. No apologies from you. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one - "

He had a lot of things he could have done better, had failed Mickey in a lot of ways, both since the accident and before. "Hold on." 

He dropped Mickey's hand as he pressed a kiss to the side of his head, pushed back the blankets, and scooted to the bottom of the bed. After closing the door, he locked it, then shook pills out of both of his prescription bottles and washed them down with the juice. (He'd need all the help from them he could right now.) Mickey watched him move about the room as if he were afraid that he would leave, but then Ian motioned for Mickey to scoot in, nearer the wall. 

"Come on," he said, once he was in bed too, lying down again on his side and motioning for Mickey to move in close. "Burrito time." This, he could do. Taking care of Mickey, he could manage that. 

Mickey was almost as glad for the opportunity to turn his face away as he was to be curled up under Ian's arm again. He shifted down under the blanket and tucked himself against Ian's chest. Ian wrapped the blanket around them both then wrapped his arm tightly around him.

They didn't usually do a lot of this with their clothes on, unless Ian was having a particularly bad week health-wise and Mickey was the one holding him. It didn't feel strange, though. Mickey was just grateful that Ian was letting him get this close. 

"Fuck, man, I'm so glad you're still taking your meds.” Mickey said it with such profound relief that it had clearly just occurred to him. “I know you hate when I bring it up but, if it were me in your shoes I would've completely spun out. I don't know how you did it."

Mickey's admiration was really wasted; Ian might not have totally 'spun out' but he'd felt like he was in a continuous slow-motion fall off of a cliff. 

"You saw me in the hospital," he said. "Or - do you not remember that? Do you remember everything now? Or just, like... mostly stuff from _before_ your accident?"

"I think I remember everything," Mickey said slowly. "It's hard because it's not... it's not all in order. I know that's not, like, a perfect answer. But it's the best I can do." He didn't understand it any better than Ian did. "I do remember you in the hospital. But that was a blip for you. You left town and you got on top of your shit again. Right?"

Except that... he knew that Ian was working nights again. But at least he was taking care of himself. 

"Yeah, Mick," Ian said. "I got on top of all of my shit again." 

Nothing could be further from the truth but he didn't want to pile anything else on Mickey right now, not when he clearly felt like shit, both physically and emotionally, and not when his head was still a mess of mixed-up memories. 

"Did you take something for your head? Do you need to eat a little something? I could make some toast or... I'm pretty sure there's still a box of your cereal here. Never opened so probably not too stale."

"You got a box of Raisin Bran here? Love that shit." Mickey had taken a ribbing from the Gallaghers about enjoying such an old man cereal, but the upside was that no one ate it on him. "Nah, I'm good. I took some painkillers, I'm just waiting for them to take the edge off." That, and he wasn't sure that he wouldn't be sick again if he tried to eat. "Who would've thought that all it would take is me drinking myself to sleep a few nights in a row to make my brain get its shit together?"

"Well, you're South Side and you've been behaving like a fine and upstanding citizen for too long. Your body was rejecting it, that's all." 

Ian pressed his face to the back of Mickey's shoulder, taking in the scent of him. Mickey's memories coming back could mean having to deal with Terry's death all over again, and from the sounds of it, he was feeling more about it than he'd probably expected to. 

"Where's Mandy? She still in bed? Have you told her yet?"

"She was still in bed when I left. I didn't wanna wake her up on her day off. And I wanted to get here. I wanted to tell you first." Mickey found Ian's hand and laced their fingers together. "I was worried you were gonna already be gone. I didn't - really think about how early it is. Franny let me in, on the condition that I get her some juice."

"Oh, god, she's been coming to my door every ten minutes for, like, a half an hour asking for juice. I know it's because she's missed me but I wish she'd miss me after the sun has completely come up."

It was his own fault for being gone, and Ian knew that. And he didn't mind her being glued to him. But he did value his sleep. "I'm not planning to leave until later. Have to see Mandy first. I thought maybe I'd take her out to lunch." 

"You're still gonna leave." Mickey didn't make it a question, because it wasn't really one. He berated himself for being surprised. Ian wasn't going to bail on the new life he had set up just because right now, this minute, Mickey happened to remember some things. So much ugly shit had happened between them since the crash. "When are you coming back?"

"I - "

The truth was, Ian had said it without thinking. He'd come back to the South Side with a plan of staying a couple days, max. And that was just what was in the back of his head. But if Mickey's memory stayed back, there was nowhere else Ian wanted to be but right here with him. 

"I think I'll worry about that later," he said. "Right now, I'm where I'm supposed to be, too. Okay?"

"Yeah." Mickey didn't sound like he was completely certain that Ian meant what he said, but he didn't push it. He was lucky, he figured, that he was in bed with Ian and this close to him at all. "It kinda scares me. Now that I know what I was missing. It kinda scares me that I could lose all of that. Just have nothing."

"You're never gonna have nothing, Mick," Ian said, tightening his arm around Mickey. "You'll always have me, you got that? Even after you left, you still had me. Even when _I_ left, you still had me. I didn't see anyone else, I never took off my rings. You're pretty much stuck with me." 

Nothing about this moment was how Ian had expected it to be, but that didn't mean that what he wanted had changed. The road was just going to be bumpy to get there. What else was new with them? "I have to go back and get my stuff, pick up my pay and all. But I'll be back, okay? I'll be back." 

"I don't really have you if I don't remember you,” Mickey insisted. “Everything that mattered was still there in front of me but I didn't know how important it was to keep it. It was so fucked, Ian." 

Mickey could not emphasize that enough. "Now that I know how it feels to remember and I can compare that with how I felt even yesterday - it fucking sucked. What if I fuckin' forget everything again when I go to sleep? Nothing about this makes any goddamn sense."

"If that happens, I'll do better this time,” Ian promised. “I'll do a better job of showing your our life and not pushing you, alright? If you forget again, we'll figure it out." 

Ian pressed in closer against Mickey, untangling his fingers so that he could rub his hand up and down Mickey's arm, hoping that he sounded more confident than he felt. Then, he decided that wasn't entirely the way to go. 

"I'm scared, too," he told him. "I'm scared you'll forget again, and leave again. I know how unhappy you were and I don't want you to have to go back to that." 

"Fuck. Me either." 

Mickey, despite how awful he was currently feeling, knew that Ian had to be feeling just as messed up. He could picture Ian yelling at him on his way out the door like it had just happened. And he could picture, too, seeing Ian in the hospital afterward. That gave him a chill that sat down deep in his bones and wouldn't shift easily. "I don't want you in the hospital again. Makes me sick. I can't believe I let that happen." 

"That wasn't your fault, Mick. You didn't make those choices for me, I did." 

Ian had had moments where he'd known that if Mickey's memory came back, he might feel really, really bad about some of the things that had happened. But Ian had naively believed that if his memory came back, they'd both be so damn happy that nothing else would matter, that all the things that had happened would just sort of disappear. Seemed stupid now, in retrospect. 

"Yeah, you made those choices because of me, because of shit I did,” Mickey said. “And I knew that you needed to have your life be stable, and not all fucked up, and that if I left that would mean trouble, and I did it anyway. Turns out if you take away my memories of you, I haven't fuckin' changed at all. I'm still the same piece of shit I've always been." 

Mickey felt the warring factions inside of him, between wanting Ian to stay close and provide comfort, and knowing that he didn't deserve it. He had rarely felt like this before, so immediately sure that he'd been wrong and messed up. 

"Mickey, stop." 

Ian's voice was knife-edge sharp. 

"Just stop. You're not a piece of shit, you've never been a piece of shit, and you weren't a piece of shit when your memory was gone. And I'm sorry that I made it seem like you were."

Ian knew that he'd been the one to be the most unfair, the most unrelenting and demanding. He wasn't going to say all of that now, though, because it would only turn into a pissing contest of who was the bigger asshole, and he didn't want Mickey dwelling more on all of the things he may or may not have done wrong. 

"I'm real proud of you, you know that? As much as it hurt when you left, I'm glad you took care of yourself. Kept your job, and all that. Got a place and everything."

Mickey snorted an almost-laugh. "What, because I acted like an adult? I had to keep my job, I'm on parole."

"Yeah, you had to keep your job for parole, but... the Mickey you remembered being didn't give a shit about stuff like that. The Mickey you remembered was about as comfortable inside as out. It would have been a lot easier for you to just say fuck it and get tossed back in. So, yeah. I'm fucking proud of you for that, and we're not gonna fight about it."

Ian was right, Mickey thought, that once upon a time, he hadn't made much of an effort to stay out of trouble with the law, mostly because he hadn't seen a way around it. Every Milkovich did time. It was practically a rite of passage. But it wasn't quite accurate to say that Mickey had reverted to that person when he had lost his memories. He had still been the person he was now. He just hadn't remembered how he'd gotten here. 

"I don't want to argue about it either," he said finally. "But I also don't wanna be the guy who exceeds expectations just by holding down a shitty minimum wage mall job." 

He had no idea what he was going to do once his parole was over, but he didn't think it was going to involve catching teenage shoplifters outside of Claire's. "We don't have to talk about this shit now. I'm tired of us being in a fight. Feels like it's been forever." 

"I don't want to fight, either," Ian said. "Just, for once in your life, take a fucking compliment, okay?"

He closed his eyes, found Mickey's hand again and wrapped it up in his own. "I've been in Detroit," he told him. "Been living in this studio apartment. It's a piece of shit but, like... I didn't hate the layout. Not very company-friendly, though, not that I've had any guests."

"You didn't hate the layout of what, the single room?" Mickey was glad when it felt like it was totally normal to give Ian some shit. 

He was also glad that Ian had chosen to hold his hand again, not that he would say that aloud. 

"Shut up, you know what I mean. I thought it looked cool, that's all. Or, would have, if it was bigger and the whole place wasn't falling apart."

There'd been a little shop below him and Ian was constantly afraid that his bathroom floor was going to cave in, leaving him naked and covered in soap in someone's lap. Not that that would be all that different from his work at night.

"And of all the places you could've chosen - fuckin' _Detroit_?” Mickey said. “America's hairy asshole? Do they even have gay clubs there or did you have to dance in a biker bar?" 

"How did you know I was dancing?" Ian asked.

"How did I know? You said you were working nights. Didn't take a rocket scientist." There was a beat, while Mickey decided whether he should say what he wanted to next. "And I know you. You want to work somewhere where you can make a difference and all that shit, and when you can't, you fall back on dancing because it makes you feel better that at least people want you." 

And maybe it had a little to do with Ian going into self-destructive mode, but Mickey wasn't about to say that. 

"Can't blame a guy for wanting to be wanted, can you?" Ian wasn't sure if he was pissed off that Mickey had been able to read him. He decided maybe just a little. And while he'd not consciously thought about the 'at least people want' him bit, he had to admit that that was part of the draw. Especially after his husband had left him. 

"I don't blame you for any of it," Mickey said, soberly. "Not this time."

"I didn't go back to partying, though,” Ian promised. “Or... anything else that I use to do. Just worked and came home."

Mickey wouldn't have blamed Ian for sleeping around or doing drugs again, either, but he was fervently glad that he hadn't.

"I'm... I'm fuckin’ proud of you, too,” he said quietly, after a moment. “Anything could've happened after the hospital and I know shit was bad, but you got a fuckin' handle on it."

"A real loose grip, though," Ian admitted. "Lip's talked me through the night a couple of times until I got my meds adjusted." 

Feeling sort of numb and dulled hadn't been great but it was better than eyeing up the razor blades. 

"Are you... happy? That you got your memory back?" 

"What kind of question is that?" Mickey demanded. Sure, maybe they were both having a harder time with this than they had imagined, but did some part of Ian really believe that he wasn't happy? "Of course I'm happy. I was a guy whose life fell completely apart because he got brain damage. This is a pretty big fuckin' improvement. Why? Are you not happy?"

"Of course I'm happy," Ian echoed, tensing at Mickey's reaction. 

Maybe he'd not asked exactly what he wanted to know, but he wasn't quite ready to straight-up put it into words. 

"You just... weren't very impressed with your life. Our life. You know, when you couldn't remember. Thought maybe some part of you might want to forget it again." 

"You're wrong."

Mickey pulled away enough that he could lay on his back and see Ian's face. 

"You're projecting your insecurity shit on me, and you've been doing that since the crash. I didn't have a problem with our life, I just didn't understand how it went or - how it was supposed to go, or whatever. Even when I remembered one or two things that happened, that's not the same as remembering how things fuckin' _feel_. You were the one so convinced I was gonna bail on us that you kept shit from me." 

Ian's lips were pressed into a thin, straight line while Mickey spoke. 

"Yeah, well, I was right, wasn't I? You _did_ have a problem with our life. You _did_ bail. You didn't believe me when I said things had been good too, not just bad. You didn't even believe that I wanted to marry you."

"I didn't leave because our life wasn't good enough. I left because it didn't feel like _my life_. And I left _after_ you kept all that shit from me and we kept fighting about it." 

Mickey rubbed his hands down his face. "This is fuckin' stupid, that we're talking about this. That shit doesn't matter now, it's over. I just want you to know that I never thought our life was shitty and I definitely don't think that now."

Ian wasn't convinced that the first of what Mickey was saying was true - he could remember all too well Mickey thinking all they ever did was fight or fuck, Mickey thinking Ian had only married him because he'd felt guilty for leaving him at the 'altar' - but he believed that, memories intact, Mickey didn't think their life was shitty. And maybe Mickey was right, and the other stuff didn't matter. The thing was, Ian wasn't convinced of _that_ , either. 

"At least I wasn't keeping secrets before your accident," he said, knowing he was being en-fucking-tirely unfair bringing up Yev when he knew damn well why Mickey hadn't told him. But it stung, feeling like Mickey was blaming Ian for the marriage not working out when Mickey's memory was gone. 

"What?" It took Mickey a moment to twig, and when he did, a look of annoyance flashed across his face. "Oh, fuck off."

He could tell that Ian had brought it up as the first thing he could think of, but that didn't put him in any more of a forgiving mood. "You know why I did that. Svetlana made it real clear that she didn't want you having anything to do with Yev, no matter what I said. If I had told you, you would've felt like shit." 

"I can promise you, Mickey, that I felt more like shit finding out about it from - well, from you but not _you_. The point is, don't be lecturing me on not being a fucking expert at knowing how to handle my husband losing his memory. Yeah, I was afraid you'd bail - which, again, you ended up doing anyway. But I wasn't _just_ thinking of that by not telling you everything all at once." 

Fuck, this was not at all how Ian had imagined these moments. He'd created a number of hopeful scenarios in his head, some days it was the only thing that had kept him going. But none of them involved fighting and blaming each other. 

"Then I'm fuckin' sorry about the kid!” Mickey snapped. “I fucked up, whatever, it's not like I got a manual either, about what to do when the Russian - _sex worker_ you knocked up while your dad pointed a gun at you doesn't want your husband to have anything to do with your kid because he kidnapped him one time." 

Mickey sat up, fuming. He wasn't happy about this either, but didn't know how to stop it.

"I'm not blaming you for shit going wrong. I'm just pissed off that you keep thinking that I'm not happy. What else do I gotta do to prove that I want what I want? I can't be rolling over on any more cartels, it's been pretty fuckin' bad for my health."

"You don't have to prove anything! I'm just saying that you _weren't_ happy, when your memory was gone. And you've started putting together this whole new Ian-less life where you're not still living in your husband's family's home and you're not tied down to a fucking crazy guy who has to take meds or else he kidnaps kids. So, yeah. Yeah, maybe I needed some reassuring that now that you know both parts of your life you still want what we used to have. Can you fucking blame me?"

"Yeah, a life where I live with my sister in a shitty apartment and that's all I've got," Mickey pointed out, quieter. "Maybe you - and your family - are fucking nuts, but fuck, Ian. You're the whole point. You're what makes everything matter." 

It didn't sound over-dramatic. It was simply true that every time Mickey had been without Ian for the past few years, he had been trying to get back to Ian. That was why he got out of bed. 

Ian rolled onto his back and rubbed his hands up and down over his face. Why didn't this feel good? Why weren't they kissing and smiling and having a celebratory fuck? 

"What are we doing, Mick?"

Mickey shook his head. "I don't know, man. Maybe I need more sleep. I feel all fuckin'... off-kilter."

Ian pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, took in a deep breath, then let it out as slowly as he could. 

"Come back here," he said. "Of course you need more sleep, more rest. Your brain's probably been working overtime even when you sleep to bring you back. We don't have to deal with every detail of what happened right this second."

They'd been through all kinds of shit before and had made it through by sticking together and toughing it out. Mickey's memory was back, the worst was behind them. They just had to keep that in perspective. 

Mickey shifted over a little, then leaned down and kissed him gently. Even though the angle was odd, it felt easy. They hadn't kissed yet, and he thought, maybe they should stick to the things they were good at for now.

"You're okay if I sleep for a little while? Try and sleep off this hangover?" He lay down again, next to Ian, facing him this time. 

"Yeah, you can sleep. I'll be right here." 

Ian couldn't picture leaving Mickey's side for anything short of a house fire or Franny falling out a window. He let Mickey settle in next to him again, then put his hand on the back of Mickey's head, bringing him in closer. Brushing their noses together, he closed his eyes, just feeling him breathe. When he finally brought his lips to Mickey's, the kisses were short, soft, like Ian was determined to detail every second and commit them all to memory. 

"Fucking missed you."

Mickey settled a hand on Ian's hip and ran it up his side and back down again, reacquainting himself with the shape of Ian's body and the way it felt when he breathed. 

"I love you," he murmured against Ian's mouth, in between one kiss and another. "When I wake up, we're gonna try this again."

His eyes were closed, and he knew it wouldn't take him long to drift off.

Ian sighed softly. He scratched his fingers in the short hair on the back of Mickey's head then put his arm tightly around him. 

"I love you, too. Get some sleep. You're home, yeah? You can really rest, now." 

He was still sleepy himself, but he was very sure he wouldn't really sleep. These moments were too important, finally having Mickey back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have had so many absolutely PEAK COMMENTS in the past week. You're all legends. I really can't thank you enough. For everyone who said, 'I'm so happy they're together but I have the feeling that it's not going to be easy', you were exactly right. But, at least, now they both want to figure it out. I love these two idiots and their one brain cell so much.


	17. Not Afraid of the Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can make a hospital lovely  
> I'm not afraid of the scars, they ain't ugly  
> I can heal it all if you're lucky  
> Open up, baby, you gotta just trust me.  
>  \--"Pedestal", Phantogram

Mickey slept for almost four hours, so deeply asleep that he barely moved. Once the painkillers had taken the edge off of his headache, he could rest properly. He didn't dream. 

When he awoke, he didn't open his eyes right away. He knew where he was immediately. The sheets smelled like the detergent the Gallaghers kept on that shelf in the kitchen, and Ian was warm and alive in his immediate vicinity. Mickey realized that he had, at some point, curled his hand in a loose-fingered grip on Ian's shirt.

He had no idea what time it was, but he was hungry.

"Fuck me," he mumbled, yawning. "Feels like I slept for a year."

"Mm, not quite," Ian said. In the end, he had dozed a little, but never for long. He'd end up jerking awake, sure that he'd only been dreaming, then relaxing again once he'd found Mickey still in his arms. Now that Mickey was awake, he shifted and stretched his back which had gotten stiff from not moving.

"You feeling better? Head better?" 

"Yeah. I feel not too bad." The sleep had made a world of difference. Mickey still felt a little off, not quite firing on all cylinders, but the symptoms of his hangover and the bone-deep weariness had abated.

"I don't think I've seen you sleep that deep in ages,” Ian said. “I mean, ages before your accident. I think I heard Franny knock once but it was quiet. My guess is Debbie told her not to bother us but she couldn't resist trying once." 

"Yeah, fuck, I never sleep that deep." Under normal circumstances, it probably would've been Mickey who awoke when Franny knocked ever-so-quietly on the door. "You should've seen how fast I got out of bed in a blind-drunk sleep when Mandy had a nightmare about Terry not really being dead. Guess I needed the rest." 

"She's had nightmares?" Ian asked. "That's gotta be rough for her." He knew well that Mandy hated to show that she had weaknesses (it ran in the family) but with a nightmare there wasn't always time for those defenses. 

"Nightmare, singular," Mickey replied. "That I know of. It was the night we got home from the hospital. I don't even know why I went. I guess I was in a haze and your paramedic pal thought he was doing me a favour by bringing me along." 

"It was probably good you went," Ian said. "There's something kind of final about hearing it from a doctor. I've seen a few people die, you know, on the job. And... I don't know. I just think you did the right thing." 

He rolled over to reach for his phone which had been buzzing periodically while Mickey slept but he'd not been able to reach for without disturbing him. There were a couple from Lip, one from Debbie asking, _'u both still alive? Too quiet up there'_. Then he smiled. 

"Speak of the devil," he said, holding out his phone for Mickey to see a text from Mandy that read, ' _you better not forget about coming to see me bitch_ '.

Mickey nodded at Ian's phone screen. "See? I told you she'd be pissed if you didn't see her. Fuck me, I gotta tell her I remember everything. She's gonna freak out and not in a good way if I stick her with the apartment and move back here." 

To be honest, Ian hadn't yet thought far enough ahead to worry about living arrangements. But Mickey had a point. 

"Okay. Then, you don't ditch her and leave her with the apartment," he said. "Either... I move in there or she can move in here. Though I doubt she would want to. Can't say I blame her."

"It's already small for two people," Mickey said. "You can move in with us, but it's gotta be a short-term thing." He scratched at his eyebrow, and added casually, "Me and Mandy were gonna upgrade to a two-bedroom soon anyway. We'll definitely be able to afford it, if there's three of us." 

Did it feel strange to _feel strange_ about asking Ian to move in with him for real? Maybe, but Mickey couldn't really explain the strangeness. He wasn't really afraid that Ian would say no. Maybe it was just that their relationship had just been under a significant amount of stress lately, and moving in felt like a big step? But what other options were there? 

"Okay," Ian said again. "How about we just start looking for a place for all of us? I still gotta get back to Detroit and I don't really want to pack my shit twice. So we can leave things as is and hustle to find a place." It wasn't ideal, maybe, but it was only for the short term. 

"Yeah? With all your dancing tips?" Mickey was mostly just ribbing him out of habit. He knew that he couldn't really be upset that Ian had gone back to dancing, since Ian had given Mickey every opportunity to prevent that by sticking around. 

"We still have our savings. I didn't touch any of that." The money had been saved by both of them and while Ian had probably put in a little more because his job paid more, it was still _their_ money and he hadn't felt right spending it. 

"You gonna call Mandy and tell her?” he asked. “Maybe that's an in-person kind of thing, huh? I could take you both out to lunch, if you want."

"Yeah, alright," Mickey agreed, sitting up and yawning again. "We'll do lunch. Fuck me. I gotta text work, tell them I’m sick.” He yawned, but made no move to reach for his phone. It just didn’t seem that important. “You sure you want me to stick around? You two haven't had a gossip about me in a while." 

"I don't want to let you out of my sight," Ian told him. He sat up long enough to pull Mickey back down and into his arms again. "Can you wait just a couple minutes to call her? I - she's had you for weeks, all to herself. I'm not ready to have to share you yet." 

"Hmm, well, I'm not in a big hurry." Mickey couldn't help but be pleased about the way Ian insisted that he stick around. He reached up to touched Ian's face, feeling fond. "But if I'm not gonna get to have some food soon, you're gonna have to make it worth my while." 

Ian knew that Mickey needed to tell Mandy his news, but he also knew she would forgive him for being greedy at first. He couldn't bear the idea of having Mickey's attention split, not yet. It had been _months_ since they'd had a moment of real happiness and Ian wasn't yet okay with leaving their little bubble. 

"I could go and make you some toast," he said, starting to grin. "I'm not sure I remember how to make it worth your while. Been a long time." 

"Oh, you don't remember? That's convenient." Mickey grinned at him, snaking his arm around Ian's waist to pull him closer so he could kiss him, lazy and unhurried. "Usually we're not wearing this many clothes, for one. You fuckin' hate a shirt when we're fooling around." 

Ian smiled into Mickey's mouth, one hand immediately going to his favorite spot, on the back of Mickey's head. He'd been teasing, but also kind of wanted Mickey to take the lead, needed to know and to see and to hear and to feel that his husband wanted him again. 

"I think I have a vague memory of that. I guess I must just like being close to you. You got a problem with that?"

"Nope. Does mean this shirt has gotta come off, though. You know, if we're trying to jog a memory." He gave Ian a meaningful eyebrow. "I heard that's what you gotta do." 

"Well, you're the expert in memory shit, so..." 

Mickey got his hands under the hem of Ian's soft, well-worn t-shirt as he spoke and pulled it up and over his head. Almost as soon as he did, he was kissing him again, had his hands back on Ian's body. It felt like he would never be able to touch him enough. Ian's skin felt familiar, but Mickey wanted to make sure, double check that every long line of muscle, every bone was where he had left it. 

Ian had to pull his mouth away from the kisses briefly when Mickey's touches took his breath away. Yeah, he'd touched him when they'd fucked before he'd moved out, but not like this. Now, Mickey's hands weren't exploring as if he'd never touched Ian before; they knew their way around, and the familiarity of it caught Ian's breath and voice in his throat. 

"Fuck," he whispered, taking Mickey's face in his hands, fitting their mouths together again. 

Mickey interrupted the kiss only to wrestle his own shirt off, blindly tossing it over the side of the bed. He didn't waste any time skimming a hand down Ian's belly to palm over his cock through his boxers, and then, when that wasn't enough contact, slipping his hand under the waistband to touch him properly. 

"Fuckin' missed you and this," he murmured, curling his fingers around Ian's cock and stroking him. 

Ian grunted softly. It wasn't just the familiarity in Mickey's touch, he realized, it was the _authority_ with which he touched him. Mickey - _his_ Mickey, Mickey with all of his memories - knew that Ian was his, knew when he should ask permission and when he absolutely did not need to. 

"It wasn't the same," he said, hands sliding down over Mickey's back, knowing that he, too, was free to do what he pleased. "Almost felt like I had cheated on you, after." He worked his way around to Mickey's stomach to open and unzip his jeans. "Couldn'ta come here in sweats?"

"I could barely see when I woke up," Mickey pointed out, nipping at Ian's bottom lip. "Let's just be glad I walked over here wearing pants, period."

Still, he helped Ian push his jeans and boxers down, managing to get one foot out but ending up with the clothing still bunched around one ankle. Good enough, he figured.

"You're an idiot," Ian said, laughing as he untangled Mickey's clothes, getting them off and then kicking off his own boxers. "Come 'ere, you," he said, already bringing Mickey in close for a long, deep kiss. 

He was still smiling when he turned Mickey over onto his back, getting on top of him, but his expression gradually softened. 

"I was starting to think I was never gonna get you back."

"I didn't know what the fuck I was doing without you," Mickey admitted. He reached up to cradle Ian's jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "I was just going through the motions. At least when I was with you, I had a reference point. When I was by myself I did the same shit every day and I didn't learn a goddamn thing about myself except that being alone fucking sucked." 

"What did you think of me?" Ian asked, even though he knew full well that it could be a mood killer and he might not like the answer. He'd kind of thought of him and Mickey being sort of inevitable. But maybe a Mickey with different life experiences, without the baggage of a lot of his past, wouldn't find the same old Ian all that interesting. "You can tell me the truth." 

"You wanna talk about that right now?" Mickey asked. There was a time when they got down to business with much less chit-chat. 

Ian shrugged at Mickey's question. He'd asked, so obviously he wanted to talk about it. He wasn't sure why, but it was important to him. 

"I guess I... I don't know, we went through the same thing but it affected us totally differently,” Mickey said. “I didn't really understand the pain you were in. It seemed fuckin'... huge, to me. And kinda freaked me out. But during the times when we were getting along and doing shit together, I could tell why I married you." 

"Yeah? On those one or two rare occasions when you actually weren't furious with me?" Ian said it as a sort of joke, with a smile, but fuck if it hadn't stung, Mickey being mad at him all the time, for one reason another. 

"Don't get on my ass about that," Mickey said, sounding aggrieved. "It's fuckin' - messed up, not knowing who you are. It's fuckin' scary." 

He shook his head, dropping his hand from Ian's face. "I don't like being weak. And then I - well, I had to fuckin' trust and depend on strangers. You know I hate that shit. Should probably be surprised I lasted as long as I did before bailing."

"Yeah, I know." Ian was less confrontational now. "It was pretty fucking scary on my end, too. It was like I couldn't do anything right." Not that that was entirely Mickey's fault, but Ian couldn't lie and say that some of those feelings weren't still lingering. He knew it was stupid, that Mickey's memories were back and things could get back to normal now. But, while the accident and memory loss had happened in an instant, Ian was quickly learning that the 'getting back to normal' might take a lot longer. 

But, he decided as he leaned down to kiss Mickey, that was future Ian's problem. Right now he just wanted _something_ that was easy between them. 

"You had to ask that question right now, huh?" Mickey asked. Ian was naked on top of him, which was Mickey's goal in many of their interactions, and yet now he felt like his head wasn't in the game. Maybe it would be harder to ignore the hard stuff and stick to the easy stuff than they'd thought. 

"This is why we don't do heart-to-hearts while we fuck. I'm all... in my head now."

Ian sighed and rolled over onto his back. 

"The last time we fucked, it fucked me up, okay? So, yeah. I had to ask that now."

If he hadn't outright asked the question, he'd have been distracted thinking about it anyway. "You want to just... call Mandy, go get lunch?"

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Yeah," he said, after a moment. "Fine. Let's do that."

He had known that any of the myriad selfish decisions he'd made when his memory was gone could come back and bite him in the ass at any second. He had just kind of been hoping to get a bit more of a reprieve. 

"Look, I'm sorry,” he added, after a moment. “I shouldn't have made a move, that time. Was thinking with my dick." 

Ian sat up, blanket bunched around his waist. 

"I'm not - mad at you for that," he said. "I was, for a while. But that was before your memory came back. I don't blame the - the real you. It's just that this is all so fucking _weird._ You know? It's hard to just forget everything that happened. And, like. I should have known better than to do it. I _did_ know better. And I still chose to do it. So, really, it's my own fault." 

He reached down to run his fingers back through Mickey's hair. Mickey closed his eyes.

"I love you,” Ian told him. “That hasn't changed. And I'm real fucking glad you're gonna be okay."

Mickey didn’t say anything for a moment, as though he wanted to soak up that feeling for as long as he could.

"That was the real me,” he said finally. Mickey sounded like this was an admission he wasn’t happy about. "Even without my memories, I was still me. I was fuckin' selfish, Ian. You _should_ be pissed. I would be. I knew how you felt and I had to know it was gonna fuck you up, but I did it anyway."

"It wasn't the whole you," Ian pointed out. "And I was just a guy to you, then. We've both had meaningless fucks with guys who don't matter. It wouldn't be fair for me to be mad at you now for it." 

He desperately needed to separate his Mickey from the Mickey who didn't remember any of their relationship. It wouldn't be good for him or for them if Mickey kept insisting that had been the real him. 

"You weren't just a guy who didn't matter. And I knew it wasn't just a meaningless fuck." Mickey looked up at him. He knew that Ian hadn't considered him _his Mickey_ while his memories were gone. But that felt like letting him off the hook too easily. "I wish I could say that it didn't occur to me that I was being an asshole, but it did. I just didn't care. Or I didn't care enough to stop."

Ian looked down at Mickey for a long moment, then he pushed off the blanket and scooted to the edge of the bed, grabbing his boxers and pulling them on as he stood. 

"Go ahead and call Mandy. Or if you want to go home and tell her in person, that's fine, too. Just have her give me a ring when she wants to get lunch." 

"So you didn't want me out of your sight and now you don't wanna look at me, huh?" 

Mickey only had himself to blame, he supposed. He wished he could just make Ian come back to bed. "We can't just pretend it didn't happen. It wasn't just a blip in time, it was months."

Ian turned back to the bad and threw his hands into the air in a gesture of helplessness. 

"What reaction did you expect that to get? The point I was trying to make was that you - the _whole_ you - wouldn't do that to me. Believe me, Mick, I know what you thought of me, then. I know I didn't matter enough to make you not fuck me even though you knew it was a shitty thing to do. And you don't need to remind me that it was months, okay? I know exactly how long it was."

Mickey sat up, leaning back against the wall. "I'm just trying not to duck this," he said. "I know you're pissed and - fuckin' resentful about everything that happened. You can't just keep that shit to yourself because you've convinced yourself that I'm not responsible. I am. And it's gonna fuck things up between us if you just bury it. So be mad at me if you want. You deserve to be. Or don't be mad, if you're not. Just don't think you have to push all that shit down because now that my memories are back, we gotta be one hundred percent happy right away."

"No, you're not responsible!" 

Ian looked and sounded every bit as frustrated as he felt.

"You're not responsible. You, Mickey Milkovich Gallagher, who spent the last ten years giving up fucking everything for me and then marrying me, are not responsible. So I'm not going to be mad at you now for anything you did when you weren't totally you. I don't know why you seem hell bent on making me. Unless you're sitting here thinking that _that_ Mickey had the right idea about me and us and our life."

"Of course that's not what I'm thinking. Fuckin' cut it out with that shit. Alright? Just stop. If you still think that I left because I wasn't crazy about our life, then you didn't listen to anything I said." Mickey stopped himself before he could really give in to his frustration. "Come on. Come back to bed. I don't wanna go anywhere yet."

"You told me we didn't have a real relationship," Ian said, not moving. "You said all we did was fight, you said you weren't sure you believed that I even wanted to marry you. Fuck's sake, Mickey, you told me you weren't even sorry and that if your memory didn't come back, you might not either. What the fuck do you want to me think about why you left?" 

He knew - he _knew_ \- that under normal circumstances, Mickey would never have said or felt those things. And he didn't really think he blamed him now, but... Mickey was right in that they couldn't bounce back immediately. 

"Yeah, because all we did was fight when my memory was gone." Mickey waved a hand as he tried to explain what he meant. "You were fuckin' - struggling, and so was I, but not with the same shit and we couldn't help each other. That has nothing to do with how our relationship was before that. There was nothing wrong with us before the crash. Right?" 

"Right," Ian agreed. "Which is why I don't blame you for what you did in those few months. But it - it hurt." Talking about emotions was easier for him than for Mickey but that didn't mean it wasn't still sometimes a struggle. "And after being afraid your memory would never come back, the thing that freaked me out the most was thinking maybe it would but that you'd like your new life better than the old one.”

"My new life," Mickey echoed with a soft snort. "You mean where I came home after a long, thrilling day of being a mall cop, ate a Hungry Man dinner, watched TV, and drank until I passed out? Yeah, I can see why you'd be worried, it's some real competition."

Ian watched him. “I mean... do you think you'd have ever fallen in love with me? If your memory had never come back?"

Mickey moved over to the side of the bed and got up, going to him. "No point in questions like that. We're never gonna know. I hope so. I never wanted anyone else, and I sure as shit wasn’t happy alone. But I'm glad I don't have to find out." 

Ian wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in for a tight hug, which was way more how he'd pictured their reunion going. 

"I like you being a mall cop." 

"It's the sexy uniform that gets you going," Mickey remarked dryly, into Ian's shoulder. 

Ian hesitated. "I know we can't bury the last few months; I don't want to do that. I guess I just didn't realize this part wouldn't be easy. I thought it would be, I really did. I love Mandy, I do. And I love my family. But I really fucking wish we could just lock ourselves away somewhere for, like, a month and figure this out."

Mickey eased back enough to look at Ian's face. "I knew it wasn't gonna be easy," he said. "Because nothing for us ever gets to be fucking easy. I've been shot - three fuckin' times now. You've been in a psych ward. We've both spent time in a maximum security prison. If it were easy, I'd be suspicious. But maybe this is a good excuse for us to go on a one-year anniversary trip, huh? Get Larry on board, then fuck off for a few days. It's not a month but it's something."

"Fuck... that's not that far off, is it?" The last thing Ian had been thinking of was their anniversary. Probably because he knew it would have been unbearable to face that day without Mickey. But now…

"Let's do that, let's get away for a few days for our anniversary. And I know you said your place is small, but until we find a new place, I want to be there with you. I don't want to be away from you." 

"Alright. Then you move in with me while we look for a bigger place." Mickey just wanted Ian to be happy for an uninterrupted ten minutes, honestly. Mickey would let him move in even if he lived in a broom closet, which - was not that far off. 

"What do you think about Vegas?" he asked. "I've never been, always thought it would be cool. Could find out how many bathrooms we can fuck in before they kick us out of the casino." 

Ian laughed, then realized Mickey was serious. 

"Wait, Vegas? You're kidding, right? You and me in Vegas? 'Cause we have so much money to fuck away gambling?" But already, he was kind of into the idea, starting to smile. "Lotta shit we could get into in Vegas. I don't see Larry approving that." 

Mickey rolled his eyes. "He can be waiting in the parking lot to drug test us the second we get back. I'll tell him the survival of our marriage depends on it. He's always talking about how important stable relationships are to staying clean after prison."

He gave Ian a tap on the ass. "Come on, let's go to Vegas. We deserve to get fucked up and waste some money."

In turn, Ian reached down to give Mickey's (bare) ass a squeeze. 

"I've never flown before. We gonna join the mile high club on the way?" 

He had no idea for sure how they'd afford it but they could figure it out. Since getting out of prison they'd been relatively smart with their money, had a little in savings, though that had been earmarked for a new apartment. But fuck it. They deserved a trip. 

Mickey grinned. "I like where your head's at." 

"You wanna start practicing for that now?" Ian asked, giving a side nod towards the bed. 

Mickey gave Ian's waist a tug and stepped back. It was an orchestrated fall that they both participated in when Mickey pulled him down on top of him on the bed. 

"Stop putting clothes back on, fucker." He reached for Ian's boxers. 

"Why?" Ian asked. "I've fucked you plenty of times with clothes on. You never had a problem with it before. Pretty pretentious all of a sudden." 

He shoved his boxers down over his hips, far enough. He was determined not to ruin the mood this time, but he couldn't resist saying one thing. 

"Speaking of pretentious, I half expected you to go look up your old friend Byron when you left here."

"Oh, like you looked up what's-his-name with the glitter eyeshadow? Fuck off. I had better fucks than Byron in prison." Mickey raised his eyebrows. "Besides, the whole point of Byron was to make you jealous, and, uh. It fuckin' worked."

"The fuck it worked," Ian said, one hand between them, fingers skimming over Mickey's cock. "Why would I be jealous of him? He was too prissy for you. Probably had a little dick, too. Plus, he was short. You don't like short." 

Mickey laughed at him. "That's a lot of words for _'it definitely made me jealous, Mickey'_." 

Ian was right, though. On all fronts. "You seem pretty confident that you know what I like," he added. 

"Thought you got all of your memories back," Ian said. "You should know that I know exactly what you like." He closed his fingers around Mickey's cock, giving it a slow stroke. "Do you remember what I like?"

Mickey exhaled audibly when Ian took him in hand. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Got you figured out. For example." 

He reached blindly for the bedside table, getting the drawer open and closing his hand around the first bottle of lube he found. Pressing it into Ian's chest, he said, "I just got my memories back, we've been talking about our anniversary... bet you're in that sappy mood when you wanna fuck face to face." 

Ian grinned as he grabbed the lube and sat back on his knees. 

"Gonna be in that mood for a long time, so you may as well just accept it." 

He inspected the tube - "Strawberry. Good choice." - then flicked it open and slicked his cock. Sappy or not, foreplay wasn't really on the menu, at least not this time, and he lay down on top of Mickey, kissing him as he slowly started to push into him. 

"You like sappy, too. Don't think I don't know."

"Fuck you," Mickey said, which summed up his feelings as well as he could articulate at the moment. He gripped Ian's arm hard, and for a minute, Ian pushing into him pulled all of his focus. He had fucking missed Ian with everything in him, he was realizing now. The ache of not having Ian hadn't been noticeable to him because he had felt it with every breath for months. He could only recognize it now that it was gone.

"I'm not fuckin' sappy," he muttered, because it was easier. "You're the fuckin' sappy one."

"Yeah, you are," Ian said, completely inside of him now and wearing a very cocky grin. "You just get to pretend you're not and that you only go along with it for me." 

He leaned down to kiss Mickey, already starting to withdraw and gently thrust into him again. 

"Your secret's safe with me." 

"No one would believe you anyway." Mickey wound his fingers through the hair at the back of Ian's head and held him close. So what if he was a little sappy? 

"You think I'm telling anyone else?" Ian asked, hips gently rocking against Mickey's. "Nah, Mick. This is just for me." 

He knew that look in Mickey's eyes, knew exactly what he was feeling and that no one else got this side of him. 

"First thing we're doing when we leave here is getting those rings back on your finger."

"Shouldn't have taken them off." 

Mickey knew there was no point in apologizing for these things that he had done when he really hadn't remembered Ian at all, and really had believed that his memory may never come back. But he regretted them anyway. "I kept them somewhere safe, though. Was never gonna get rid of them."

Ian stilled inside of him, bringing one hand to the side of Mickey's face. 

"It's okay," he told him, meaning it. "The fact that you kept them is good enough for me. We'll get 'em back on you soon enough." 

Mickey was grateful that Ian was trying to make it easy on them. He just nodded. It was hard to look at him when he was being so gentle, when Mickey was trying not to feel guilty. Luckily, the moment didn't last long.

After a kiss, Ian braced himself up on his arms, adjusting his angle and starting to thrust a little harder. 

"Do I still know what you like?" 

"That as hard as you can go?" Mickey returned, because it was just easy to fall back into that pattern of banter. At least that much was easy. 

Ian leaned down for a hard kiss, following by a sharp bite to Mickey's bottom lip. Then, bracing over him again, he started thrusting harder, snapping his hips forward, not speaking. The bed was creaking loudly, something they were usually mindful of, but he paid it no mind. If, after all they'd been through, they hadn't earned a few minutes not giving a fuck about anyone else... 

He was glad, suddenly very glad, that when they'd fucked last it hadn't been face to face.

Mickey scrabbled back with one hand, blindly finding the bed frame and curling his fingers around it, bracing himself. The fingers of his other hand were still buried in Ian's hair. He didn't even notice that the bed was loud, only the sounds Ian was making, the sounds they were both making. His world had narrowed down to just Ian, the way his body felt and the way his breathing sounded. 

Ian had been exactly right when he'd said that he knew what Mickey liked. It wasn't long before he came, breathing ragged, trusting that Ian would fuck him through it, and would get what he needed. 

Ian grunted from the effort of not coming until Mickey had first. Finally, supporting his weight with one arm and reaching his free hand up to wrap around Mickey's on the bed frame, he gave in, coming inside of him. Somewhere in the back of his head he took note that the noises he'd made had been both loud and, in any other setting, probably unattractive, but he didn't care. He leaned down over Mickey, letting more of his weight rest on him, and tucked his nose into the crook of Mickey's neck. Embarrassingly, his eyes were wet, but he didn't want to ruin the moment by having Mickey tease him for it. 

If Mickey knew that Ian was emotional he didn't remark on it, but he stroked his hair and held him close, turning his face to kiss the closest part of Ian's head. 

"I love you," he said, his own gaze fixed on the ceiling. "You and your magic fuckin' dick." 

"Love you, too, Mick." 

Ian's voice was soft, a little hoarse. He hadn't felt so close, so connected to anyone in a long time. Sure, his family had done what they could, but he'd been facing losing Mickey mostly on his own. And now, it felt like the dam had broken, everything pent up threatening to come out. 

He kissed Mickey's neck then pulled out and rolled off of him, onto his back, swiping at his eyes. 

"Fuck..." He found Mickey's hand again and took it in his own. "Think we scarred Franny for life?"

Mickey laughed at the unexpected question. "In this house? If we're the first people she's heard banging, I'd be very fuckin' surprised." 

He squeezed Ian's hand, feeling, for the first time in a while, like he was in the right place at the right time; like he wasn't just waiting for the next thing he _had_ to do. "We're gonna have to get a quality mattress for the apartment, though. Mandy's not gonna put up with that shit. She'll start throwing shoes at the wall."

"We'll add that to the list for the new place. I ain't moving a mattress twice." 

Ian rolled onto his side, put a hand on the side of Mickey's face, turning him to him for a kiss. "Until then, she can invest in some quality ear buds. Because I plan to do a lot of what we just did over the next few weeks. Got a lot of time to make up for." 

He tried not to ask it, he really did. But he had to know. 

"You, um... hook up with anyone after you moved out?" 

Mickey felt like there was a wound between them that Ian couldn't resist picking at, like he wanted to get all the hurt out of the way now. He supposed that he couldn't really blame Ian for that, but he also knew that if their situation was reversed, Mickey would go out of his way to _never_ find out. It had hurt enough when Ian had cheated on him the last time. 

"I don't let anyone but you fuck me," he said. "That didn't change, even when I didn't have my memories. And I didn't fuck anyone either. I went out... two or three times over the last couple of months, got a blowjob or whatever. But I don't even remember names or faces. Names and faces weren't really the point. I was just trying to... I don't know. It's... fuckin' weird, being lonely. Hadn't felt like that since prison. The first time around. Not that I remembered prison."

Ian nodded, but didn't comment. It wasn't hard to guess that Mickey hadn't wanted to have that conversation but it would have driven Ian mad not to. It was better to know. 

"Yeah. Being lonely sucks." 

Had it really just been the night before that Ian had been so lonely that he'd offered to fuck Mickey again, even knowing that, at that point, Mickey had no real feelings for him?

"You don't have to worry about that now, though. You got me. And, hey. We got Mandy back in town. All it took was you nearly dying and our impending divorce."

Mickey snorted. "Yeah, just those two minor things." He became more thoughtful for a moment. "You know what? I never would've thought when we were kids that me and - anyone in my family would be close when I got older. And I guess we're not really close, exactly. But when I had fuckin' nobody, she came. And that's... that's something. Was kinda nice not to have to ask." 

"Maybe you could be close," Ian said, stroking over Mickey's cheek with his thumb. "You and I are getting a do-over with your memory coming back, maybe the two of you could, too." 

Ian knew that Mandy depended a lot on her friendship with him, and he liked that. But it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for her and Mickey to develop a real relationship, either. 

"Man... fucking one Milkovich, bitching about people with another. It's gonna be like I'm fifteen again."

"Yeah, except you're not just fucking me, so no fake-dating my sister," Mickey said, giving him a playful nudge in the side. 

"Sad that I was the best boyfriend she ever had," Ian said, meaning it as a joke but knowing as he said it that it was true even though he was including his own brother in the statement. Maybe now that they were all kind of settling down, she could find someone decent. 

"Hey. You wanna have a shower?” Mickey asked. “The one at my place isn't exactly big enough for two people. Should probably make the most of this one."

"Yeah, let's go shower," Ian agreed. "Then we can surprise Mandy." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for another round of incredible comments, team. I wanted to let you know that we've written a short little Lip side-fic set in this 'verse, and a separate gallavich epilogue story, so we'll throw those up after this one is done. I appreciate every single one of you!


	18. Meet Me Halfway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I feel it coming on  
> You can be well aware  
> If ever I try to push you away  
> You can just keep me there  
> So please say you'll meet me  
> Meet me halfway.  
>  \--"Clearest Blue", CHVRCHES

After a long shower - during which Carl banged on the door twice - Mickey felt much more like the strange anxiety that had marked the morning was going to pass. Maybe they would have a few more little spats about what had happened while Mickey's memories were gone, but in time they would get past it. Wishful thinking, maybe, but they had always made it through before, even when the odds were firmly stacked against them. 

When they left the house, Mickey stayed close enough to Ian that their arms could touch. Maybe they didn't really do hand-holding, or really any PDA in this neighbourhood unless they wanted trouble, but Mickey knew that Ian needed him close, so he stayed that way. He didn't reflect on the fact that he wanted to be close, too. 

Had they been just about anywhere but the South Side, Ian would have held Mickey's hand, just to make sure he didn't somehow disappear. But he wasn't an idiot and he wasn't about to ruin their reunion by getting into some kind of street fight. 

They reached the apartment, and Mickey fished out his key and let them in. Ian stepped inside, looked around... and realized just how urgent it was that they find a bigger place. 

"Hey,” Mickey called. “Mandy?"

Mandy emerged from the bathroom, dressed and pulling her hair into a ponytail, but she stopped short when she saw both of them standing there, visibly confused. 

"H- hey... Hey, Ian." She looked back and forth between Mickey and Ian. "What's going on?"

"I, uh." Mickey scratched his nose, suddenly unsure of exactly how to say it. "I guess I floated my brain in enough whiskey last night that it jogged my memory." 

They would probably never know why exactly everything had fallen into place now, specifically. Maybe it had just taken his brain this long to heal. He wasn't about to give Terry dying any credit. 

"I went by the house this morning to catch Ian before he left and to start to... figure our shit out."

Ian couldn't be sure, but he was willing to bet that the look on Mandy's face was exactly the same one he'd had on his when Mickey first delivered his news. 

"What do you mean, jogged your memory?" she asked, looking and sounding hopeful. "You mean it's back? All of it? Your memory's back?" 

And maybe it was because she had a little (or a lot) less at stake, or maybe Ian's presence there counted as proof, but Mandy believed the good news a lot more quickly than Ian had. In a rare show of Milkovich emotion and affection, she crossed the room and pulled Mickey into a long, hard hug. Then, stepping away, she punched Ian in the shoulder.   
  
"That's for never texting me back, asshole."

Mickey was looking pleased, and he made no effort to hide it. 

"Well, I can't speak for the past few weeks, but today he was kinda busy." 

Mandy rolled her eyes. "Gross. Don't tell me that shit."

"No, you're right, we got back together and just talked for a few hours," Mickey deadpanned, which got him a punch in the arm similar to Ian's. 

"You better be taking me out for lunch," Mandy told them. 

She was fighting a grin, but Ian wasn't even trying. He slung an arm around Mickey's shoulders, hand resting just above his chest. 

"Of course we're taking you out to lunch," he said. Then, adopting a very bad (or very good, depending on your opinion) television announcer voice, he said, "But wait! There's more! You've already won a memory-intact brother, but as a bonus, you now get a brother-in-law, all in the same apartment!" 

At first, Mandy laughed, but it faded a little. 

"Wait, seriously? You're moving in here?" There was a flash in her eyes that she tried to hide, but Ian had seen it: if he was moving in, did that mean she had to move out?

"I told him it's too fuckin' small," Mickey said. He, too, had noticed the nature of her reaction. "But it's just temporary, right? He's not gonna stay at the house when me and him are married and I actually _remember that_ , and he sure as shit ain't going back to Detroit. You and me were talking about getting a new place already, and now it'll be cheaper with three." 

He was hoping her reaction would be leaning toward positive. He was kind of getting used to having her around, and anyway, it was stupid for them to be paying for two places. 

"Detroit?" Mandy asked. 

Ian nodded. "Yeah. Far enough to have some space, close enough to come home if someone croaks."

He unwrapped his arm from Mickey and tugged Mandy in to hug her. He whispered in her ear, only loud enough for her to hear, _"Missed ya."_ He'd done the right thing, cutting ties so she could look after Mickey guilt-free. But that didn't mean it had been easy. 

"So," Mandy said, when Ian had let go of her. "You guys want me to live with you two? When you're really basically still newlyweds? Does this mythical new apartment have sound-proof walls?"

"We'll find somewhere," Mickey said. "I know some of those old buildings are real solid. The ground floor apartments have concrete walls. And if we don't, we'll go in on noise-canceling headphones or something."

He shrugged. "Unless you would rather pay for your own place. Just seems kind of dumb to pay rent twice when we could just get a two-bedroom."

Of course, you couldn't trust Mickey to say that he liked having her around. 

"Plus," Ian added, "You know he and I will just end up getting ourselves killed if we don't have some adult supervision. I turn my back for one second and this one gets shot." 

Would their own place be great, just the two of them? Absolutely. But if it was a choice between keeping Mandy around and her going back to the situation she had left... then it was no choice at all. 

"It's gonna be good," he said, as much for her as for Mickey. 

Mandy looked relieved but she masked it with a roll of her eyes. 

"You're paying for the noise canceling headphones," she said to Mickey. 

"Like fuck I am," Mickey replied. "Ian's the loud one."

"You're both loud," Mandy told him flatly. "And it's almost as bad just hearing the bed springs and the fucking head board knocking against the wall."

"Well, I'm sure you'll be living like a nun in our new apartment and we'll never have to listen to your bed springs," Mickey said, raising his eyebrows.

"Maybe I'm swearing off men," Mandy said with a shrug. "You don't know."

Mickey snorted.

"All you need is one," Ian said, arm going around Mickey's shoulders again as he planted a kiss to his temple, not even trying to pretend he was joking. 

"Oh, god," Mandy said. "That's worse than the bedsprings and headboard. You better be taking me somewhere really nice for lunch." 

She went to grab her jacket, all the while muttering, "Can't believe I'm agreeing to this." She did glance back at them (Ian had just pulled Mickey in for kiss and pretended not to notice), looking almost fond, definitely happy. 

\--

That night, Mickey was thoroughly worn out by 8pm. It had felt like a long day, even though it had been a very good one. He flipped Mandy off when she made fun of him for turning in so much earlier than everyone else, knowing Ian would follow him into the bedroom. 

"I'm fuckin' beat, man," he said, when the door was shut behind them. His shirt came off, then his jeans. "Is it the hangover? Am I just getting old?"

"Probably more to do with being shot, losing your memory, getting blitzed, and _then_ having the hangover." 

Ian stripped down to just his boxers, kicking his clothes to the corner of the (small) bedroom. 

"So, Mandy's been sleeping on the couch the last few weeks?" he asked. "Definitely gotta get her a real room and bed." 

"Yeah." Mickey dragged the curtain across the tiny window. "It's not ideal, but we've been saving up to get another place. We didn't exactly plan this ahead, me and her living together. It's been alright, though. We don't fight as much as we used to. Kinda nice having someone around." 

Ian only realized belatedly how his comment could have come across and he didn't want Mickey to think he was criticizing him. "Hell, I guess we've both slept worse places than a couch in a relatively clean apartment, right?"

Mickey just shrugged at that. He hadn't made his bed in the first place, so it wasn't a great affair to pull back the sheets. "You wanna get the light? 

"Yeah, I got it," Ian said, flicking the light switch then taking the two or three steps to climb into bed after Mickey. Immediately, he pulled Mickey against him and kissed him deeply. 

"Damn good day today, Mick. I'm so fucking happy right now." 

"Yeah, yeah. Me, too." Now that they were alone, in the dark, Mickey pressed his forehead briefly against Ian's. When Ian said he was happy, Mickey couldn't help but picture him in the kitchen, on the day Mickey had left. He had never seen him that heartbroken and he knew how much he had really hurt him. The guilt wasn't going away yet, but Mickey knew that Ian didn't want to hear him apologize again for the shit he had done when his memories were gone. So he just had to resolve to make Ian happy enough that it would make up for it, somehow. 

Something else occurred to him. "Oh, hey. If you reach in the drawer next to the bed, my rings are in the bottom of my weed grinder." 

"Oh, yeah." 

Somehow, the rings had slipped Ian's mind, but he rolled over and got them from the drawer as soon as Mickey had mentioned them. 

"Give me your hand," he said. Though the room was mostly dark, he could tell which ring was which by touch, and got them back on Mickey's finger. 

"There," he said, pulling Mickey in close again. "Now I'm even more happy. Not sure I'll even sleep tonight. Might just stay up and watch you sleep like a creeper."

"No, you gotta go to sleep, because tomorrow you're going to Detroit to pack your shit." 

Mickey wasn't sure why he felt this urgency for Ian to get rid of this second life he had started building. Maybe, if he were in any way a self-reflective person, he would recognize that he wanted things to go back to normal as immediately as possible, before all of this could cause even more of a rift in their relationship than it already had. But Mickey had never been the thoughtful type. "You can't have that much stuff, right?"

"Nah, not really. If it wasn't for needing to pick up my pay, I probably wouldn't go back at all." 

Ian just had a few changes of clothes and a couple of magazines, some frozen dinners in the freezer back in Detroit. Nothing worth the price of a train ticket. But the pay he was due was substantial because the night before he'd left, the club had had an event night and the dancers got a cut in addition to their regular pay. 

"I was thinking maybe you might want to come with me."

"Come with you?" Mickey echoed. He wasn't sure why the invitation surprised him a little. After all, Ian seemed pretty keen not to leave his side. Maybe it felt like Ian had built this secondary life as an After-Mickey, and Mickey had never been meant to see it. 

"Have to check with Larry if I can leave the state. And I gotta ask work for a couple days off.”

"If you can't, that's fine," Ian said. "But, yeah. Yeah, I want you to come with me." 

It wasn't like he had anything he wanted to show off, and he didn't want to make Mickey feel bad when he saw just how shit things had been for Ian without him. He just didn't want Mickey to be out of his sight and that far away. And any alone time was precious right now.

“I kinda wanna see your place,” Mickey said thoughtfully. “And make sure you leave the sequined underwear in Detroit."

Mickey had no interest in being in Detroit, but he also wasn't crazy about the idea of Ian going somewhere without him. He had spent enough of the last few years far away from Ian and he was pretty much over that. 

"I think you mean you want me to bring those shorts back here to wear for you." 

"You think I have good memories of you dancing up on me in those shorts?" Mickey asked. "I don't need you to put on a show for me. Save that for the geriatric crowd. I get the real fuckin' deal."

"We could make some good memories with the shorts," Ian said. "Especially since I'm hoping to get my old job back. No more dancing for the geriatrics at all, if I can help it." 

That would be a last resort, going to back to that job once he was home. But he did kind of wish that Mickey was a little more interested in getting a little show in the privacy of their own space. "You sure you don't want the shorts?" 

"If you want to, I'm not gonna stop you," Mickey told him. "You look fuckin' good in the shorts. No one's arguing that. And I'm sure it would get my dick hard if you danced for me. It's just not really my thing." 

When Ian's response was just silence, Mickey tried to explain a little bit better, aware that it felt like he was digging himself a hole. "Look, you know what got my attention, right? The fact that you were, like... a guy's guy. I didn't know any gay dudes before you where you couldn't tell. That's what I like. We're like two... straight guys who like to fuck other guys. So the gay bars and the glitter and the sparkly shorts don't really come into it."

Ian's frown wasn't visible in the dark but it was audible in his voice. 

"Okay, I see the point on the glitter but... the dancing and shit? Straight guys do that all the time. So, what? When I was doing that you didn't look at me the same? You didn't think I was, like. Masculine or whatever?" 

"No," said Mickey immediately. "No, that's not - don't twist what I said. What I meant was, when I was into it, it was because it was _you_. And I think you're attractive pretty much fuckin' always. The dancing itself is just not in my like, top ten fantasies or whatever. Not to mention that it made me crazy fuckin' jealous and I don't like thinking about you doing that shit for other guys. It gets up in my head."

"I'm not trying to twist what you said, Mick. You just said we were like two straight guys and the sparkly shorts didn't really fit that." 

Ian was a little surprised that what Mickey had said bothered him. No, it wasn't an ideal job, and he'd gotten himself into a shit-ton of trouble doing it the first time, but... he could admit that he liked to dance. 

"I'm not planning on doing it for anyone else unless it's the only option. So, yeah, okay. The shorts can go in the trash in Detroit." 

"Alright." Mickey could tell that what he had said had made Ian a little out of sorts, but he didn't regret being honest. Even if he had been really into what Ian was talking about, it brought back a lot of unpleasant memories. Mickey didn't always like thinking about that time in their lives. 

"Hey,” he said, as an olive branch. “We can probably bang in your apartment without annoying the shit out of my sister, so there's a silver lining."

Though he didn’t immediately look completely cheered, Ian’s expression said that he had been thinking the exact same thing about having a family-free apartment for the night. They might annoy the neighbours, but he didn't give a shit. 

Micked rubbed his knuckles gently on Ian's back. "Are you all good to be an EMT again? After what happened?" He wanted to change the subject, but he also wanted to know. Mickey didn't know what his reaction would be to finding Ian dying in a car wreck, but he couldn't imagine it wouldn't stay with him.

"I - " 

Ian started and stopped. He'd not even thought about what Mickey was asking. He hadn't really allowed himself to think about that night at all, hadn't spoken about it to anyone, even when they'd tried. And when Mickey's memory was gone and he had moved out, returning to any kind of normal life and job had seemed such a slim possibility that Ian had been able to continue avoid dealing with it. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. That's if I can even get my job back at all."

"Alright. You're gonna fuckin' get your job back. I'll crack skulls if I gotta." If Ian said he was fine, then Mickey would let it go. They definitely talked more about their feelings than they used to, but it still wasn't a favourite activity. 

"I got all my memories back, but I don't remember the accident," he mused. "Not that upset about that."

"No, I hope you never remember the accident," Ian said. He wished he could forget it, but if only one of them was afforded that luxury, he was glad it was Mickey. "When we pulled up, I think both of us expected to be bringing out a body. And then I recognized the car..." 

He shifted in the bed, as if getting comfortable, even though he already had been. "Then some asshole decided he wasn't gonna finish his physical therapy." 

"Well, that's because another asshole told him not to spend his money," Mickey said, letting Ian steer the conversation away from the night of the accident. "Besides, that's the first time I've been shot while I had health insurance, but it ain't the first time I've been shot. I wasn't out here doing _physical therapy_ after your child molester boyfriend shot me, or after your other child molester boyfriend's wife shot me. I never even heard of physical therapy before this."

"Okay, first of all, what kind of physical therapy would you need in your ass?" Ian was smiling as he gave Mickey a hard poke on his ribs. 

"And the second asshole only told the first one not to spend his money when the _first_ asshole decided with no warning to walk out on the second asshole and told him to his face that he wasn't even sorry about it. So first asshole was lucky second asshole's brother came over or he'd have gotten his ass kicked."

"You wouldn't have kicked my ass,” Mickey said. “Remember what the doctor said about how many more head injuries I got left before I go full vegetable?" 

"Didn't say I was gonna kick your head. I said your ass. Doctor gave no warnings about that."

"You're really gonna hold that 'not sorry' thing over my head until one of us dies, huh?" Mickey was glad that Ian appeared to at least be smiling about this now. He gave him a gentle punch in the arm in retaliation for the poke.

"Maybe not until one of us dies, but for a while, yeah," Ian replied. "You gotta admit, that was some kind of low blow. You could have at least pretended it was hard for you." 

His voice still had something of a jovial hint to it, but not entirely. And the undercurrent was that he was still hurt by what Mickey had said. 

"I could've at least pretended?" Mickey echoed. "You know who you're talking to, right?" Mickey was still not that shit-hot at talking about his real feelings, never mind drumming up fake ones. "Hey. Look. I'm not ever gonna leave you. But if I were going to, it would have to be over some pretty major shit. And it would be the hardest fuckin' thing I've ever done. Okay? That's me talking, your Mickey. Not that guy who didn't even fuckin' know you. So just... don't be losing sleep over shit I said when my head wasn't right."

"Okay, yeah. Maybe pretending is asking too much. But did you have to say that? You had to know that only made it worse. Couldn't you have left without adding that one more thing on top of it?" 

Ian believed Mickey - his Mickey - when he said he wouldn't leave him. He'd proven himself time and again. But, fuck, it still hurt. And that was hard for him to process, to make sense of. He wanted answers that he knew he would never get to questions that weren't even fair to Mickey to be asked. "I'm not, like. Losing sleep over it. Or, I won't be now. It's just... I'm probably just tired. Still getting used to you being back."

"Yeah, I probably could have left without adding that one more thing, but like you said, I'm an asshole." Mickey was prepared to let Ian have that one. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it. You gotta admit, I was in a weird fuckin' headspace and situation."

"You're not an asshole,” Ian said. “I mean, you are, but..." 

Mickey kissed the closest part of Ian's face that he could reach in the dark. "I'm tired, too. I don't wanna fuckin' fight with you. Let's just go to sleep, huh?"

Ian shifted again, settling in next to Mickey, an arm tightly around him. "I don't want to fight, either. What a day today, right?"

He kissed Mickey's shoulder, letting his lips linger on his skin. "Maybe you could get three days off or something. Spend a couple days with me in Detroit, just us, before we come back and I move in." 

"You just wanna fuck in a shitty Detroit apartment for three days, huh?" Mickey was grinning in the dark. "Alright. That sounds pretty fuckin' good to me."

"That is a very large part of what I want, yes," Ian said. "I want to fuck you, face to face, taking my time and not worrying how loud I am or if the bed starts banging the wall.”

Mickey’s hand moved down to squeeze Ian's ass under the covers. "What are we talking? Real bed situation, or a mattress on the floor? How white trash should I be prepared for?" 

“Yes, it's a real bed, shut the fuck up." Under the blanket, Ian found Mickey's nipple and give it a pinch. 

"Better stop all the talk about fucking," he warned. "Mandy doesn't have the headphones yet and I don't want her mad at me again right after she forgave me for not talking to her. But my will power is only so strong after a long fucking dry spell."

"Save it for tomorrow morning, tough guy. I'm not even sure I'm fully fuckin' awake for this conversation." Mickey kissed him, long and slow, without meaning for it to go anywhere. 

"Mmm... morning sex." Ian was quite a fan of it, which Mickey knew very well.

"I love you." Mickey knew that he was going to have to say that a lot for a while, and he was more than okay with that. "Don't be a creeper. Get some rest. I know you haven't been sleeping right on your bare-ass floor mattress in Detroit. In the morning, I'll find out about getting those days off."

"I love you, too. No promises on the creeper thing, though." As tired as he was, Ian doubted he would sleep much. It might be a while before he did. "If you need anything, and I'm sleeping, wake me up, okay? In case you wake up and your head is messed up."

"Yeah, yeah." Mickey knew that if he woke up and Ian was actually sleeping, he wouldn't interrupt his rest. He had been enough of a selfish dick for one lifetime. But he wouldn't tell Ian that, of course, because Ian would argue.

"Good night. If you wake up before me, you better not go anywhere. I got plans for you."


	19. Belong With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You belong with me.  
> I don't belong on this porch under a whiskey moon;  
> There ain't no falling asleep if I ain't sleeping with you.  
>  \--"You Belong", Shawn Austin

"Can you imagine if we'd taken that place on the third floor?"

Ian and Mickey had just carried the last of the large furniture items into the new, two-bedroom place they would share with Mandy. Due to the fact that neither Mandy nor Mickey had jobs that would make them rich and that Ian was, for the moment, without a job at all, to find a place with two bedrooms that was mostly safe and not a complete shit hole had been hard work. But they'd finally found a building with a sturdy structure and a landlord who didn't mind if they painted the walls or got their own carpet (so long as they knew the carpet stayed if they moved out) with two vacancies. One was a third floor and one was a basement apartment. The one in the basement had little natural light but it was bigger by about a third, had its own entrance at the foot of a few steps, and at least the living room, where the door was, had a couple of large windows. 

Ian, dripping in sweat, put down his end of the mattress that would be theirs as soon as they assembled the frame for it that they'd bought. They'd nearly depleted their savings for the security deposit and the bits of furniture that they'd need, even buying a lot of it second hand, and Mickey and Mandy could keep them afloat with the rest of the money Ian and Mickey had put away for a couple of months. But once Ian found a job, they'd all feel better. Trouble was, there was no guarantee that he'd get his old job back. 

His EMT supervisor wanted him back on the job, but since he'd quit (and he'd walked off of his previous EMT job, and people talked), he'd have to go through a series of interviews and meetings with some of the higher-ups before he'd be given another shot... _if_ he was given another shot. In the meantime, now that they'd gotten moved in, as soon as they were settled, he'd be looking for some kind of job to hold him over. Until then, though, he was feeling anxious, not enjoying being the only one not contributing, even if half of the savings they'd used had come from him. 

In the three weeks since Mickey's memory had come back, things had been... mostly good. It was hard to adjust and so far hadn't gotten much easier. Ian found himself holding grudges about some things that Mickey had said and done, even though he knew it wasn't fair. And he hated to have Mickey out of his sight, knew that Mickey was getting increasingly irritated with the number of checking-in and checking-up texts Ian sent while he was at work. But Ian couldn't help it. He still hadn't found a way to let his guard back down, to trust that Mickey's memory was truly back for good... to trust Mickey himself entirely.

"Mandy's off at five, right?" he said, watching as Mickey went into their kitchen, getting a beer from the fridge. (They'd already put away the important things like food... and a few cold ones.) "I know she'll unpack her own stuff, but I thought we could make her bed for her, have it ready."

"Yeah, five, but she said she was gonna stop at the bank." Mickey shrugged. "If we put her bed together, she'll definitely be in a better mood for the conversation about hitting on the landlord so he'll fix that fucked-up light in the bathroom. I'm handy enough but I don't fuck with electrical." 

"It's only fair she take her turn," Ian said. "I practically had to dry hump that girl at Home Depot to give us the sale price on the bedframes even though we had last week's sales papers." 

It was a very good thing that none of them had any kind of personal stance against using whatever assets they had to get things they needed. 

He frowned just a little as Mickey cracked open the beer and swallowed down a solid half of it in one go. 

"You don't want to maybe hold off on that until we've gotten the bed frame put together?" 

Maybe - _maybe_ \- he was a little worried about how much Mickey was drinking lately. 

Mickey made a face. "What, you think building a bed frame is gonna involve operating heavy machinery? It ain't rocket science."

He had been catching Ian eyeing him whenever he would come home with another case of beer or bottle of whiskey. That shit wasn't free and Mickey knew that, but he figured that as long as they were staying on top of bills, there was no reason for him to stay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about shit he would rather not think about. 

"Come on, you read the instructions, I'll get the tools."

"Not saying it's rocket science,” Ian said, undeterred. “I'm just saying it's not even dinner time, yet. That's all."

"What does dinner time have to do with it? Are we a sitcom family now? Should I stop swearing?" 

Mickey's brow furrowed and he took another swallow of his beer before he went to hunt around in the boxes stacked around their new living room for the mismatched set of screwdrivers that, okay, yes, he had lifted from the Milkovich house in the days after Terry's death. Judging by the state of the place, he hadn't been the only family member to help himself to Terry's belongings. 

"No," Ian said, trying to be patient and not start an argument. They'd been having too many of those since Mickey got his memory back. "I'm just saying - you know, it just seems like maybe you've drinking more than you used to. Is that something that started when we were apart?" 

"I don't know, probably." Mickey thought that Ian might be right about him drinking more, but it was kind of hard to gauge where "normal" was. After all, he had been recovering from a head injury and before their wedding he had been in prison, so he definitely had spans in recent years where he barely drank at all, compared to spans when things got a little tougher where he drank a lot more. "Been having a hard time sleeping. It's not about you."

That, at least, he was pretty confident about. 

Ian knew that much was true, that Mickey was having trouble sleeping. Ian knew because he'd yet to get a full night's sleep since they'd gotten back together. He'd either lie awake, just watching Mickey or, when he did finally drift off, he slept so lightly that any movement from Mickey and he was wide awake again. 

"You read the instructions yet?” Mickey asked. “We gonna need Allen keys?"

Ian went to the box that held Mandy's bedframe first, getting it flat on the floor so he could tear the flaps open and dig through for the directions. 

"Looks like we just need a couple regular screwdrivers," he said, rattling off the specifications so Mickey could get the right tools. 

And then, because he wasn’t about to let this drop: "Not sure drinking that much every night just to sleep is good, though. Right?" 

He worked while he talked so that he could keep from appearing too confrontational, getting the box totally open and pulling out all of the pieces and organizing them according to the order the instructions said they'd need them. 

"Probably better than not sleeping at all," Mickey said pointedly, because yeah, he knew that Ian was barely closing his eyes at night, either. "Look, it's not a problem, alright? I'm not like Frank. I've got a job, I don't go to work drunk, I'm not spending us broke. I've got it under control."

All things considered, Mickey thought, he was handling everything that had happened pretty damn well. So what if he was leaning a little more on drinking lately to help him get through? 

He found the screws he needed, and began to assemble the first few pieces. 

"Mickey, I don't think you're like Frank," Ian said, finally looking over, right at him. "I'm not worried about this from, like, a selfish standpoint, I'm not worried you're gonna spend all our money." Hell, now they didn't have much left to spend. "I'm worried about you. About why you're doing it." 

No, he didn't expect this attempt to get Mickey to talk to be successful. He just wanted him to know that he wasn't missing the signs, that he knew Mickey wasn't entirely okay. He just wasn't sure what it was that _wasn't_ okay, if it was the stress of his memory returning, if it was the tension between the two of them, if it was Terry. The problem was, there were too many possibilities. 

"Nothing to worry about," Mickey told him stubbornly. "Eventually it'll go back to normal. That's how it always goes." A few weeks of drinking, and then the thing that was bothering him became easier to ignore, and the drinking leveled off. Tale as old as time. 

"I don't know what normal even is anymore." Ian said it as much to try and keep Mickey talking as to get something off of his chest that he'd been feeling. "Here, hold on... let me..." He moved to help hold the pieces in place that Mickey was assembling. "First time any of us have had new beds and mattresses." 

Mickey began screwing together the two pieces that Ian was holding. "Yeah. Something about breaking in a new mattress. Can't say that about any of the mattresses we've banged on before."

"Yeah, can't lie and say I'm not looking forward to that part." Another plus with the new place was that the two bedrooms were on either ends of the apartment, which meant they wouldn't have to worry much about noise. "Assuming we ever get the damn things put together and figure out where we put the new sheets."

Looking back down at the instructions and then swapping a piece in his hand for a different one, Mickey said, "I think the sheets are in the garbage bag in Mandy's room. They're in one of the garbage bags, anyway."

He was quiet for a moment. "We haven't had much normal,” he said, returning to what Ian had said earlier. “Something's always fucked up."

He knew what Ian had meant. He had his memories back, but things still felt off. He was hoping that, after enough time passed, that feeling would go away. 

"We've got our own place, though. Gonna be easier to start fresh." 

"Well, maybe a fresh start should be taking better care of ourselves?" Ian suggested. "I haven't missed my meds, been trying to watch what I eat and all that. How is that different from you not needing to get drunk just to go to bed?" 

He knew he was pushing his luck a little, trying to force Mickey to share a little more. But while Ian had no issue with Mickey drinking a beer or two every day or getting drunk on the weekends, needing it just to fall asleep wasn't okay, even by their standards. 

"Jesus Christ, Ian. Can you let it go?" Mickey sounded annoyed, and he stopped what he was doing to look up at Ian. "You know that some shit has happened recently, right? I don't gotta walk you through everything? I'm not gonna lay awake with my brain going a hundred miles an hour because you think I shouldn't have beer before supper. You're not my fuckin' mom. Lay off."

He bent his head over the bed frame again, and managed to almost immediately get his finger caught between two pieces of metal. He swore and shook out his hand. There was a bright spot of blood in the webbing between two fingers, but he just glowered at it and went back to work.

"No, I'm your fucking husband, or did you forget again?” Ian demanded. “I'm allowed to tell you when I think you're not taking care of yourself. Or, you know what? I've had a lot going on lately, too. I'd love to be able to turn off my mind, too, and not have it going a hundred miles an hour. So maybe, just for now, I'll stop taking my meds, that way I can just be happy for a while. Would that be okay, too?" 

Ian really hadn't meant to start a fight but it seemed like that and fucking were the things they did with the most success right now. He ducked into the kitchen for a napkin when he noticed the blood on Mickey's hand. 

"Don't be a fuckin' idiot," Mickey snapped. "You're not gonna go off your meds. That's not the kind of shit you can hold over my head." 

"How the fuck is it different, Mickey? But, yeah, sure. Let's do this your way, where I can't tell you when I'm worried about you without you getting defensive and shit. That's exactly the kind of marriage I want to have." 

Mickey ignored the napkin that Ian brought. "I don't need your help. Maybe it's better if we do our own shit in two separate rooms for a minute, huh? I promise I won't drink myself to death while I'm out of your sight." 

In his frustration, Ian balled up the napkin and threw it at him.

"Fuck you, Mick. I don't give a shit what you do." 

Heading back into the kitchen, he picked up a box labeled 'pans and whatever' to unpack. 

When Ian was gone, a moment passed before Mickey snatched up the napkin and pressed it to the wound on his hand. Ian had chosen the loudest box for an angry person to unpack, so Mickey listened to him do it for a few seconds, scowling, before he went back to work. 

It didn't take him long to finish assembling the first bed frame. Ian had been right; Mickey had always been kind of handy with this type of thing. He was going to start on the second one, but he sighed quietly and got up.

"Hey." He hung back, in the kitchen doorway. "I know I'm fuckin' braindead for giving a fuck, but it's kind of messing with my head that my dad's dead."

He didn't exactly look at Ian. He knew that Ian would think that he was being an idiot, and he knew that he was. He just didn't know how to stop thinking about it. 

Ian had his back to the doorway, stacking some pans from largest to smallest to put them in a lower cabinet that he'd already opened. He paused when Mickey spoke but didn't turn around to face him even when he replied. 

"Of course it's messing with you," he said. "Like him or not, he was, like... I don't know. A defining person in your life, or however you want to say it. And then he just suddenly wasn't there anymore. Not to mention he fucking keeled over in front of you. I'd be worried if you weren't a little messed up about it. But, um. You know you can talk to me, right? Instead of just drinking to avoid it?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to talk about it with you," Mickey said. "I don’t want to talk about it at all. Look, I know you're pretty fuckin' pleased that he's dead. I get that. I fuckin' hated him, too. But I didn't always. Even though I knew what he was like, I still fuckin' wanted - " Mickey cut himself off, because he didn't know that he could piece enough of that together to say it aloud. "He was still my dad," he said, instead. 

"So I don't need to be telling you all this shit and worrying about whether you think I'm a fuckin' idiot for giving a shit. I just need a few weeks to - get my head right, and then you won't have to worry. Okay? I promise."

"Jesus Christ, Mick."

Ian put down the pan in his hand and turned to face him, his expression somewhere between hurt and angry. 

"You think that's what I'd say to you? You think if you actually for once in your whole fucking life really opened up and talked to me about feelings that I'd be so fucking insensitive that I'd just tell you you're an idiot?" 

He took a stuttered half-step forward like he was about to go to Mickey but he stopped, not sure it was the right move. 

"Yeah, I think we're all better off with him dead, given he tried to kill you. But, Mick. I get fucked up relationships with parents. I know it isn't the same but I miss Monica all time. Even after everything. You're not stupid for being fucked up about it. Okay? I don't think that. I know he was still your dad."

Mickey was glad that Ian had stopped. He wanted to abandon this conversation so badly, but he knew that he couldn't, not without dragging the rift wider between them. It took a substantial amount of willpower to stay there, to simply drag his hands down his face as if this were any old conversation that he was struggling to navigate, and say, "Yeah, I didn't think you were gonna say any of that, about thinking I'm stupid. I thought you were gonna think it. Because, fuck. I do. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

He hated all of this ugly shit being out in the open. He had never loved anyone who would've wanted to hear it. He couldn't even really credit that Ian did. 

"I would never even think it," Ian told him. 

Ian, from a family that was for sure fucked up but that also was free with hugs and at least some semblance of openness and sharing, wanted to go to Mickey, wanted to soften his voice, to be gentle. But he didn't. He just leaned back against the counter, arms folded, as if this were any other conversation, trying just as Mickey had to keep a casual atmosphere. 

"I was ready to kill him myself, and now I can't fuckin' sleep because he's dead?” Mickey asked. “I'm so goddamn tired of thinking about it. I need some peace and fuckin' quiet but my brain won't quit. I wanna walk away and never think about him again so why the fuck can't I?" 

"It might take a while," Ian said. "Your dad was definitely a prick, but... I don't know. Always there, right? A major part of pretty much everything. I guess it's like, once they're dead, that's just it. It's done, it's final. And final is a big deal. I don't think you're stupid. I think everything right now is fucked up and I don't want you to hurt yourself." 

"Yeah, everything is pretty fucked up." Mickey knew he was tense and looked that way, but he couldn't seem to force his shoulders to relax. "But I'm not gonna be an alcoholic over my dad. And he's not gonna fuck up my marriage." 

_Fuck him,_ Mickey thought. _He's not gonna fuck up anything again._

"I don't want you to worry. Okay? I just need some more time. I gotta get past it. Maybe I'm drinking a little more, but I'm not in trouble. I'm not gonna - I'm not gonna do that to you." 

He knew that Ian had dealt with enough fallout from drinking, and certainly more than one person should have to. 

Ian's main concern was for Mickey, not for himself. But if wanting to keep Ian from living with another alcoholic was something that kept him from becoming one, Ian wasn't going to argue that point. 

"Okay," he said. "I'm gonna trust you on this and let you handle it how you need to. But... talk to me, too, okay? Even if it's just a little. Talk to me." 

It was harder for Mickey to do that, which Ian knew. But when a guy's head was so fucked up he needed to have a suicide list, it gave him a new perception of what it looked like to not always be the tough guy. So Ian didn't want Mickey to keep it bottled up all the time. 

"You and me are in our new place, for once no one is trying to kill me, and we deserve some fuckin' happiness,” Mickey said. “I'm sorry that we're always fighting. I don't know how to quit." 

"I think once we settle in here the fighting will be less. There's just been so much happening. I still feel like I'm jumping waves, here." Not that Ian had ever been to the ocean. 

"Well. Soon you'll have your old job back and we won't have to think about money so much, at least." Mickey knew that while money was a stressor, it was also a safer topic to jump to; neither of them were really past everything that had happened after the crash, but that felt like territory that would lead to further arguments. 

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that." Ian ran a hand back through his hair. "It's more of an if situation, not a when. I honestly don't know if I'll get that job back. Gonna have to start looking for something else. Hopefully just short term, but I can't sit around waiting." 

He turned back to the pans, leaning down to put them in the cupboard. 

"Don't have a lot of options, though. Not if I want to make real money."

"Real money?" Mickey wasn't born yesterday. "You thinking about working nights again?"

To be honest, he had seen this coming. Mickey had just sort of been hoping that the EMT job would come through before they needed to have this conversation. 

"Thinking about it." Ian stood up again and busied himself with collapsing the box he'd just emptied, avoiding Mickey's eyes. "Not long-term, just until we find out about the EMT job. If I get that back, perfect. If not, then I'll start looking for something else. It's good money, Mick. Really good money. Even without any extra... services offered." 

"I know what kind of money it is." It was Mickey's turn to watch Ian while the latter avoided his gaze. "So, what, we're gonna have opposite schedules when we're barely fucking getting along as it is? I'm gonna come home from work and you'll be leaving?"

"Only for a little while. Probably not more than a couple of months and hopefully not even that long." It was the kind of job that people came and went from all the time. It wasn't like Ian would need two weeks of training or have to invest in uniform shirts like Mandy did at her job. "I wouldn't work every day and we'd have a couple of hours between when you got home and I had to go out. We could have dinner together, and I'd be home by the time you get up in the morning." 

Mickey wanted to say that he already wasn't sleeping, and Ian not being there - Ian being out doing shit that had kept Mickey up at night at the best of times - certainly wasn't going to help. But it sounded selfish even in his own head. 

Frowning, he turned back into the living room to drag out the box with the other bed frame in it. "Well, sounds like you made up your mind." 

Sighing, Ian followed Mickey back into the living room. 

"No, I haven't made up my mind yet," he said. "I know what I _want_ to do, what I think is our best option. But I wanted to talk about it. You know, have an actual _conversation_. Not to bring it up and have you walk away, though I guess that's what I should have expected." 

"You knew how I was gonna feel about this before you said it," Mickey said, glancing up at Ian as he laid the box down flat. "We _just talked about_ the gold shorts, man. That's why you didn't even fuckin' look at me when I asked you if you were gonna work nights. So instead of us having another fuckin' argument, I skipped it. If dancing is what you wanna do, what you think is best, then I'm not gonna stop you. Couldn't if I wanted to. Ian Gallagher does what he wants. Always has."

"Oh, and Mickey Milkovich doesn't? Give me a fucking break." Ian shook his head, not bothering to offer to help Mickey with the box. Mickey didn't need or want his help right now and Ian wasn't much in the mood to give it anyway. "Yeah, I knew what your reaction would be. But I thought we could have a conversation about it, that maybe you'd try to understand why I'm suggesting it."

"Do you understand why I don't want you to?" 

Mickey stood up, to put them closer to the same level. "I know it's good money and we're broke right now. I get that. I know you're good at it. And I know you like doing it." Mickey didn't sound angry anymore. "But the last time you did this, it was because we were separated. And the time before that, you were high all the time and not on your meds and fucking strangers behind my back and it was a trainwreck. So our track record with this ain't exactly award-winning. Plus I worry about you working nights and fucking your routine up and not getting enough sleep. I don't think it's good for you. You gonna tell me I'm wrong about that?"

"If I did it - " Ian held up a hand to hold off anything Mickey might interject. " _If_. I'm doing a hypothetical, here. If I did it again, would you trust me not to do what I did before? No drugs, no fucking anyone at all, not doing anything but dancing. Do you think you could trust me? And I really want you to be honest, even if I won't like the answer." 

"Yeah." Mickey didn't have to think about it. "Yeah, I trust you. We made vows and I know you meant them." 

He let a few seconds of silence pass, but obviously had more to say.

"It pisses me off that they can't just give you your paramedic job back. That's the shit you're really good at, the shit you actually like. And they schedule you during the day, and the people who work with you give a shit about you and whether you're taking care of yourself. The assholes at the club would've let you die in a snowbank." 

Ian waited him out, not speaking until he knew Mickey was done. 

"I know. Believe me, I'm hoping hard that I get that job back. I fucking love it. And I think there's a good chance. But until then, I gotta make some money. The whole point of us getting a two-bedroom was because we could afford it on three incomes. And I swear to you, Mickey. If I go back to dancing for now and the EMT job doesn't pan out, I'll find something else. Even if it's sweeping floors or busing tables or riding a garbage truck." 

He didn't say it, but the other reason he really wanted his old job back was because Mickey's job didn't provide insurance, and neither would most jobs Ian could get. And it had felt good for a while to be able to provide that for both of them, no more free clinics. Mickey would never have gotten the care he had after his accident if they'd been just getting welfare care. 

"You could do worse than ride a garbage truck," Mickey pointed out. "I think city employees have medical benefits." 

"Yeah, plus the benefit of coming home to my husband smelling like garbage. Real romantic." Ian desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that, but if it did, it did. 

Mickey rubbed at his nose with his thumb and looked down at the half-opened box for a long few seconds, obviously weighing what Ian had said and how he felt about it. 

"Alright," he said at last. "Just until we find out about the EMT job. And if the whole whack-schedule-sleeping-during-the-day thing starts to make you go off the rails, you gotta tell me."

"You'd probably notice before I would if I was getting messed up from working nights. And if you tell me I am, I'll listen. I promise." Ian walked over to Mickey and put his arms around his neck. "Thank you for talking this through with me. I know it's not an ideal situation." 

"It's not great," Mickey agreed. He already knew that if he were to tell Ian that the night shift was catching up with him, it would be an up-hill battle to get him to listen. He hoped that it wouldn't come to that, but when had he ever gotten that lucky?

"Guess I shouldn't be too pissed off that I married someone that other people really want to see naked." He tucked his arms around Ian, his way of saying that he was letting it go. 

"They won't get to see me totally naked," Ian said, relieved that Mickey wasn't going to keep fighting him over it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry it came to this. If I hadn't run away, I wouldn't have to worry about trying to get my job back. 

Looking ahead to the consequences of his actions had never been Ian's strong point. 

"You didn't run away," Mickey told him, reaching up to briefly cup the side of Ian's face. "Everything fell apart. Not your fault you didn't want to stick around. I didn't wanna be here either, but I figured I might as well be miserable in the South Side as anywhere else." 

Ian knew that he _had_ run away. Maybe he had had good reason to, but he'd still run. But the dancing job would only be for a few weeks, so they could tough it out. Weren't they experts by now at gritting their teeth and getting through shit? At least now they were together and relatively stable.

For them. 

"Alright,” he said. “Let's get these beds done. The sooner they're done, the sooner we can start breaking ours in, right?"

Mickey gave Ian's cheek the smallest pat and stepped away from him, bending to finish opening the second box. 

"The first one's done, if you wanna put the mattress on it and do the sheets."

"Yeah, okay, okay," Ian said, turning the bedframe on its side and starting to make his way to their bedroom with it. "You know, it's pretty hot, you putting shit together, using your tools. If you can get Mandy's frame together by the time I make our bed, we could get started breaking it in before she gets home."

"Challenge accepted," Mickey told him, reaching for a screwdriver. "Wait 'til you watch me fix that hole in the wall and stop the bathroom sink from leaking." 

  
\--  
  


The next few days passed with relative ease. Ian went to work at the club, and after the first couple of nights, Mickey relaxed slightly when it became apparent that Ian was coming home on time and sober, and didn't appear to be any worse for wear. Mandy and Mickey managed to unpack nearly everything on Saturday when they were both off and Ian was sleeping. And, true to his word, Mickey fixed the hole and the faucet. The walls probably still wanted for some paint and the whole place needed a deep clean, but they were starting to settle in.

As much as being away from Mickey four nights a week sucked, the money didn't. And while Ian enjoyed the dancing well enough, it didn't really hold the same appeal it once had, knowing that his husband was at home, sleeping alone in their bed. Ian danced and danced only, turning down every offer for more, regardless of the money. But the fact that he couldn't wear his rings (it destroyed the illusion, his boss said) still made him feel like he was somehow being unfaithful. He'd not told Mickey that part; the job wasn't permanent so no need to upset him more about it. 

It was Sunday night and Ian wasn't working, so the three of them had ordered a pizza and sat around playing video games until nearly midnight. Mandy went almost undefeated, and Mickey threw pillows at her until she got up and tried to suffocate him with them. All in all, a standard evening in the Milkovich family.

It was a few hours later, when the apartment had been dark and silent for a while, that Mickey awoke with a start. 

Ian was still sleeping lightly, still aware of every time Mickey even rolled over in his sleep. Which meant that when Mickey jolted awake, Ian was only a second behind. 

"You okay?" he asked, reaching a hand out to put it on Mickey's arm. 

Mickey registered different things all at once, none of which made any sense; there was a faint line of ambient light marking where a shade met the bottom of a window, not quite as dark as the total darkness around it. Somewhere, something hummed (a refrigerator?), and further away, there was the throbbing beat of a bass line in a song too distant to recognize. And then, a half a second later, someone that he hadn't even known was there spoke, sending his heart racing wildly. 

Mickey threw off the hand that was touching him and scrambled to push the stranger away, throwing a blind fist that connected with something, although not full-on. He hurled himself off the bed, heart roaring in his ears, and fumbled for the light. 

"Hey, whoa. Mickey, what the fuck?"

Ian scrambled up into a sitting position and untangled his legs from the blanket. His shoulder smarted from where Mickey's fist had connected but it wasn't bad. 

"Hey - hey, it's okay," he said, squinting at the light. "It's just me, it's okay. You alright?" 

Mickey stared at Ian for a long few seconds before the blind panic and disorientation began to fade slightly. 

"We're in the... the new apartment." He spoke mostly to himself, as though he needed to be firm with the part of his brain that wouldn't latch on. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in details that didn't quite seem familiar yet. 

"Fuck." He pressed his palm against his forehead. "The new apartment. With Ian. Shit."

For a few seconds, it had been just like waking up in the hospital again with no way to anchor himself to his surroundings. 

Slowly, Ian got out of the bed and went to him. He'd kept his distance at first, just in case Mickey was still ready to swing, but that moment had passed. He'd woken up a little confused a handful of times, sleep slow to unfog his brain, but never like this. 

"Yeah, that's right," he said, pulling Mickey to him. "You're in the new apartment. With me. Everything is okay. Mandy's in her room, and she's fine. Everything's alright. You wanna sit down?"

Belatedly, Mickey put his arms around Ian and pressed his face momentarily into his shoulder. He smelled familiar. At least this one thing was immediately recognizable. 

"Yeah, I'm gonna sit," he said after a moment, and when he sat on the side of the bed, it was as if he had deflated. This was his worst nightmare, forgetting everything again. But he didn't want Ian to lie awake dreading it too. 

"I'm fine. I'm fine, I just - I didn't recognize the room for a second."

Ian sat down beside him, one arm still snugly around him. 

"Is that all?" he asked. He didn't think Mickey would lie, not really. But they'd both been known to skirt around the truth if they felt the other needed protecting. And Mickey had sure seemed to be reassuring himself about more than just the room. 

"Told you not to put all that hot sauce on your pizza," he joked, kissing Mickey's shoulder. 

"Yeah," Mickey said, cracking a barely-there smile at Ian's joke. He ducked his head, knowing that he needed a few seconds more to get a handle on things, not sure if Ian would be able to see it in his eyes or not. "Yeah, I was just foggy for a minute. Maybe because we're in the new place. I don't know. Just a blip, man. I'm okay. Sorry for freaking you out."

"I'm not freaked out. It's okay." Ian leaned down kiss the back of Mickey's head, then scooted back into the bed again, pulling the blankets back for Mickey to return as well. "Come here, yeah? Lie back down with me, catch your breath."

Mickey moved back to the top of the bed more slowly than Ian had, as though exhaustion had begun to firmly settle in. He reached out to turn the light off before he lay down against Ian's chest, pulling the covers up over them. 

"Were you sleeping?" Mickey asked, when the two of them had made themselves comfortable. "Did I wake you up? Shit, I don't even know what time it is."

"It's alright." Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey, holding him close. He could probably count on one hand the number of times he'd held him like this, comforting him. "Looks like your brain is still healing, I guess. Maybe we should get you to your doctor, just so she can check you out."

"No," Mickey said at once. The last thing he wanted was for this to become A Whole Thing. He didn't want the doctor to tell him that there was still something wrong with him, that he would have to face the fact that there was no such thing as leaving the car crash in the past forever. "What's she gonna do, tell me that I scrambled my brains? We know that already. I'm fine. It was just a one-off."

Ian hesitated but then said, "Okay." And it was okay, for now. But if it happened again, he'd bring it up again and not take no for an answer. "How do you feel now? Memory still okay? Everything makes sense?" 

His voice was soft and even, in direct contrast to the sound of his heart thudding in his ears, still. He was rattled, but determined not to show it.

Mickey knew better than to buy that Ian was taking this calmly. After the way he had been so badly hurt after their relationship had all but disappeared after the crash, there was no way he wasn't freaking out. Mickey didn't bring it up, but he pressed a kiss to Ian's chest and settled a soothing hand on his ribs. He could be gentle if he wanted, and he usually only wanted with Ian.

"Yeah, I feel okay," he said. "I remember everything now. It was just... you ever wake up from a dream and you're just disoriented as fuck and you don't know what year it is? Felt like someone dragged my ass out of a coma."

"Wasn't that long ago that your ass _was_ dragged out of a coma," Ian said. "Makes sense that deep sleep might throw you a little. Especially because you never used to sleep that deep. This hasn't happened before?" 

He hated to think of Mickey waking up that disoriented when he was at work and not there to comfort him. If that was the case, if this was some kind or regular thing, Ian would never work a night again. 

Mickey hesitated for only half a second. "Not like that," he said, because there was no way he could tell Ian an outright lie. 

"You know how sometimes I wake up and I'm just kinda... confused for a minute? Like, groggy, but not freaking out? That happens often enough, I guess. But I haven't had it like tonight before. I don't know, I... you know how we talked about me drinking so I could sleep? I think maybe I usually don't wake up during the night because of that. Harder to stay asleep sober. Could be why I lost my shit so much more tonight."

"When I work, do you drink more before bed?" Ian wasn't accusing, only asking. He'd only worked three nights so far, since he'd just started dancing again, but it was enough that maybe Mickey had a pattern already.

"I don't know," Mickey replied. "I might. But if I am, I'm not doing it on purpose." 

"Being a little groggy is one thing, that happens to all of us,” Ian told him. “But... if this happens again... I don't know, Mick. Maybe we shouldn't rule out the doctor quite yet."

Mickey was silent for a moment. Normally, he would just ignore the comment and hope that Ian forgot about it, but in the dark, tucked in under his arm, it was a little different. Maybe he felt a little more vulnerable because of what had just happened. 

"I don't want her to tell me that it's gonna get worse." He had been trying not to think about that. "Sometimes people... I don't know. They're never right again after they hit their head. I had a cousin who boxed and now he's like, 40 and basically doesn't remember shit, has to have help to do everything. Watches fuckin’ cartoons all day. It's fucked. If that's gonna be me, I don't wanna know."

"Hey, listen." Ian kissed the top of Mickey's head, began slowly rubbing his hand up and down Mickey's arm. 

"That's not gonna be you, okay? The only thing that got messed up was your life memories. You knew how to walk and write and talk. You remembered how to drive and cook and, like, balance the checkbook. You sure as fuck remembered how to use tools. So the doctor isn't going to tell you that your brain is fucked up like that. But she might be able to give us things to do to help when this happens." 

Mickey remembered talking to the doctor about this. _Episodic versus procedural memory_. It was why he knew how to do all the things he had known how to do before, even if he had forgotten long stretches of time in his life. But he didn't trust it to mean that he wouldn't keep on forgetting the important things. Maybe that part of his brain would never completely heal properly.

"You don't know what she's gonna say," Mickey said. "I don't wanna forget you again. I don't wanna _know_ that I'm gonna end up doing that one day. If it's gonna happen, I want to live like it isn't until it does." 

Ian paused. 

"I would rather know," he said, softly. "If that could happen again, if it's _going_ to happen again, I want to know. I don't know if I could take it, you just disappearing from me again with no warning. I can't leave the house for work one day, everything's fine, then come home expecting dinner but find you looking at me like a stranger. Look, I get it's your choice and maybe I have no right to even say it but... if this happens again, please go to the doctor." 

"What difference does it make if you know it's gonna happen?" Mickey asked. "Then you'll just spend the rest of our lives fuckin' side-eyeing me."

He stopped himself before he went any further down that road, unloading onto Ian his own fear and anger about what had happened and what might still happen. It wasn't going to change how Ian felt.

"If I go to the doctor, we're gonna tell her just to tell you. I'll go - wait outside, or something. I don't wanna hear it."

"Makes a big difference to me if I know whether it’s going to happen or not," Ian said. "If I could lose you again, I need to know. I know I'll never understand what you went through, but you'll never understand what it was like for me, either. If you're okay with the doctor telling just me, I'm okay with that, too." 

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, and this would never happen again. But if it did, Ian knew he would need to hear everything the doctor might have to say about it. 

"We don't need to worry about it now, though. Now, you just need to get some sleep, get some rest. Mandy opens tomorrow, so we can sleep in and stay in bed until you go in to work."

Mickey shifted a little, stretching out an arm that was starting to get pins and needles in it. "You say sleep in, but I know I'll wake up to you giving me the eye at like, 7:30." 

"Won't be my eye I'm giving you when you wake up."

"That a promise?" Mickey asked. "Because I'm not wasting a sleep-in morning when you're actually here. We already don't have enough morning sex because your schedule is fucked."

"Hey, I try to stay awake long enough when I come home. I'm not superhuman." Usually Ian got home an hour or two before Mickey got up and while he did try to stay up, he was usually fast asleep when Mickey woke, only stirring enough to make sure he was okay. Like most best-case scenarios, it had maybe been a little optimistic to think that having opposite schedules wouldn't affect anything. "How are you feeling now? Better? Do you want a drink or something before we settle back in?" 

"Nah." Mickey eased back a little. "I'm gonna turn over, though."

It felt more normal to have Ian at his back, even in a strictly non-sexual intimacy sort of way. He got himself settled and reached for Ian's arm to pull it over himself without thinking about it. 

"Love you. Even if shit goes sideways."


	20. Settle Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ain't a small town,  
> Yeah, I've been around;   
> He's the only boy that made me wanna settle down.  
>  \--"Unkiss Her", Dan Davidson

Ian wasn't a great cook (in fact, it might be pushing it to even say he was good) but he'd tried. Rather than buying a pizza, he'd gotten refrigerated dough and toppings and made his own, just how Mickey liked it. And he may have bought bagged lettuce for the salad, but he'd cut up the vegetables himself. And, sure, the cupcakes were from a box (and not at all a uniform size) and the icing from a can, but he'd baked and iced them himself. 

All in all, he was pretty fucking pleased. 

They were celebrating when Mickey got home from work, though Mickey didn't know that yet. Mandy had been banished to a friend's place for the evening with Ian heavily hinting that she might want to stay late (hey, he was just encouraging her with the new friends she'd made at the mall) and Ian had even bought a better beer, not that either of them needed that. But, after five long weeks of him working nights and not getting nearly enough time with his husband, he'd gotten his old job back, and that deserved something special. 

Assuming Mickey came home on time. Chicago public transportation was notoriously unreliable when it came to exact arrival times. 

When Mickey came into the apartment a few minutes later, he tried and failed to connect the dots when he smelled something baking. It wasn't anyone's birthday or anything, and Ian would occasionally cook but he did not bake.

"Hey," he called, as he took off his jacket. "What are you burning?"

"You're hilarious," Ian said, stepping into the kitchen. "I'm burning nothing, thank you very much."  
  
It was mostly true. He'd put the sauce a little too close to the edge of the crust and some had dripped off, down into the oven, over the pan. _That_ had burned, but they weren't eating that, so it didn't count. 

He tugged Mickey in for a kiss.

"Mmm." Mickey smiled into it. Whatever had put Ian in a good mood, he was here for it.

Ian released him so that he could take off his shoes. "I made dinner. And dessert. Real dessert, I mean. I don't just mean the second dessert we'll have after we eat the actual dessert." He nodded towards their small kitchen table which he'd set with their mis-matched plates and glasses. "We're celebrating."

"What are we celebrating?" Mickey asked, walking into the kitchen to look at Ian's setup. When he opened the fridge to grab a beer, he spotted the more expensive ones right away. "And the good beer? Shit. Did we win the lottery?"

"As close as we'll ever get." Ian leaned around Mickey to grab the salad bowl and put it on the table. Then, leaning against the back of one of the chairs, he grinned. "Guess who never has to wear a pair of sparkly shorts again, after tonight. And guess why that is." 

Mickey had just opened his beer, but he froze with it halfway to his mouth. "You got your old paramedic job back?"

Ian was right; it felt just as good as winning the lottery. Money completely aside, Ian could work days again, and they could go to bed together at the _same time_. Tension that Mickey didn't even know he'd been carrying - for weeks, maybe, coiled there - eased away.

"No shit. Fuck yeah, we're celebrating." He set his beer aside and crossed their small kitchen for a hug. 

Ian was already opening his arms, but he didn't settle for a hug. Instead, he tipped up Mickey's chin and kissed him deeply. 

"Tonight I work my last shift, tell them I'm done. And first of the week I go for an update on my certifications. All said, I'll be working again within a couple weeks. No insurance for sixty days, but we can handle that if someone will quit getting himself shot up." 

Ian was grinning like an idiot and he knew it but he didn't care. After the worst few months of his life, things were back on track. To have a job he was proud of, that _Mickey_ was proud of him for having, that was a game changer. 

"Yeah, well, I've been going out of my way not to get shot, so I'll try to keep it up." Mickey was smiling, too, Ian's grin infectious, looking up at him from the circle of his arms the way he always did - as if Ian had hung the moon. "I knew you were gonna get it back. You're a good fuckin' paramedic. You saved my life, right?"

"I didn't really save your life," Ian said. "That was all the doctors, not me." 

Dinner was ready but he wasn't quite ready to let Mickey go.

"With my recertifications, I have to, um..." he hesitated, for just a split second. "Talk to one of the staff counselors, too. To make sure I'm ready to be back out there, after your accident, being the one to find you."

Mickey stroked his cheek with his thumb, studying Ian's face from this close. They had talked about this a little, but Ian had said he was fine. Mickey had patiently waited for them to come back around to it. "I think you _should_ talk to someone," he said, but with nothing firm and insistent in his voice. After all, it had to be up to Ian. "I don't remember what happened, but I know that if I saw you like that, it would fuck me up."

He paused, knowing that he had asked this before but also that it bore asking again. "You do think you're ready to go back, right?"

Ian nodded. "Yeah. I'm definitely ready to go back. But... I do think it might be good to talk to someone. We had a couple car crashes, when your memory was still gone. And those were hard. It was hard not to see you in the wreck, even though I knew it wasn't you. We've both seen some shit but nothing like that night when we found you." 

Ian wasn't sure if he would ever fully open up to Mickey about what that night had been like, the way his heart had almost stopped when he thought Mickey was dead, the hours after when he'd refused to change his clothes because if Mickey died on the operating table, that blood was all Ian would have had of him, morbid though it may have been. 

"Come on. Let's eat," he said, changing the subject and gently closing that door. "I made pizza and cupcakes, which we are not eating in bed, so don't ask."

Mickey cupped the back of Ian's neck and gave it a quick squeeze before he released him. He knew that Ian was probably downplaying what it had been like, but he also didn't blame him. The two of them were better at talking about their emotional shit than they had been once upon a time, but they still had their limits. They had all the time in the world to come back to this, if Ian needed to. No door was closed forever.

"You gonna make me eat salad?" Mickey asked. "Even though we're celebrating?" He actually didn't mind salad, but he had a reputation to uphold.

"Fuck yes, you're eating salad," Ian said sternly. "I made the whole thing, whole fucking meal for you." 

And while he was no chef and he didn't plan to do it all the time, there was a little swell of pride in Ian's chest at having done it. 

Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock at the front door. Since no one knew they lived there except Ian's family, Mickey figured that they had better answer it, though his immediate inclination was to shout at the interloper to get fucked. As he was closer, he got up and opened the door. 

He hadn't expected to see his cousin on the doorstep.

"Sandy? What do you want?"

Ian, who had followed Mickey to the door, was just as surprised. "Sandy... well, Jesus, come on in," he said. (He was just a tad over-jovial, maybe the very beginning hints of a high-high, but only the hints - and it was better than a low-low, _and_ they were celebrating.) 

Sandy came in, glancing around. Her verdict on the apartment was the universal _not-bad_ expression, her lips curving. "Mandy here?"

"Nah," Mickey said. "I can tell her you came by."

"No, it's okay. I’ll catch up with her." Sandy glanced over at Ian. "You look pretty damn cheerful."

"We're celebrating," Mickey said. "Ian got his old job back. He cooked and then we're gonna bang, so make it quick."

"Wow, okay." Sandy didn't look too terribly offended. "Still in the honeymoon phase, huh? Well, I'll, uh, get out of your hair in a second. I just wanted to bring you something."

She pulled a thick brown rectangular envelope out of the inner pocket of her jacket and offered it to him. Mickey, who had seen enough stacks of drug or gun money packaged in this way, didn't need to open it. 

"What's this?" He asked, turning it over to see if there was anything written on it.

Ian, too, was able to guess what was in the envelope but he was far more nervous about it than Mickey seemed to be, which Sandy picked up on. 

"Don't worry," she said. "It's all legal. Well... not really legal, but nothing Mickey actually did. Got one for Mandy, too. Turns out Terry had a hell of a stash that he left behind. And lucky for all of us, someone with brains found it. AKA not any of your idiot brothers. So, I got rid of what needed gotten rid of and made some cash. Even split between all of us, it's a good chunk of change. Figured it's the very least that asshole could do." 

She smiled. "Imagine how pissed he'd be right now if he knew."

Mickey stared at her for a second, then looked down at the envelope again. "So this is, what. My inheritance?"

"You could say that," Sandy agreed. "Think of it like asshole tax for putting up with your dad all those years. He definitely wouldn't have wanted you to have it so make sure you spend it on something super gay."

"Guess that means he'll be spending it on himself, then," Ian quipped, but his eyes on Mickey were serious. Yeah, money was great. But any reminder of Terry, he knew, might rattle Mickey. They'd still not really talked about his dad dying since their conversation about Mickey drinking too much, and while Ian could tell he was doing better, he knew that those conflicting emotions didn't just go away. 

"No shit." Mickey handed the envelope to Ian and made a little 'bring it in' gesture. Sandy complied, and they shared a brief, hard hug. 

"You're welcome," she said, after. "I gotta go, but. I'll try and drop in again when Mandy's here."

Ian hugged Sandy, too, told her to come by any time ("Especially if you have money.") then closed the door behind her when she left. 

"Holy shit, right?" he said. "How much is it?"

Mickey took the envelope back from him, opened it, and skimmed it with his fingers and a practiced eye. 

"Almost three grand," he said. He looked up at Ian. "Holy shit is right. How the fuck did we come into three grand and you got your job back on the same day? I know I didn't do anything good in a past life so it must've been you."

Ian's eyes widened. "Three grand? Are you serious? Man... we could do a lot with that."

His mind was going a mile a minute already. Put some in savings, maybe get a beater car for a grand and let Mickey fix it up.

Mickey folded the envelope shut. "We gotta keep this somewhere safe."

Ian smirked. "You mean like a bank?"

"A bank? What are we, the Rockefellers? We can't be out here leaving a paper trail with drug money. I'll think of a good place for it."

"No one will know it's drug money, Mickey," Ian said patiently. "I think we'll be okay." 

Mickey ignored him and held up the envelope. "This? This is Vegas money." He had thought that the second that Sandy had handed him the envelope. "She said to spend it on something super gay, right? What's more gay than us celebrating our anniversary by fucking in a heart-shaped hot tub in Vegas?"

For all of the sensible and adult ways Ian was thinking of using the money, Mickey's idea blew them out of the water. 

"Vegas? You serious?" he asked, though even as he said it, he knew that's what they'd be doing. "Ah, fuck. Let's do it. Only gonna have our first anniversary once, right? Probably only gonna have three grand once, too. And I _do_ want to fuck you in a heart-shaped tub."

"Yeah, you do." Mickey grinned, wrapping his arms around Ian's neck. It felt like, for the first time in a long time, maybe things were going to break their way for a little while. They were due, Mickey thought, for a break. 

"We're gonna earmark some money for a nice hotel, room service, and getting fucked up every night. The rest is gonna be for gambling. You any good at blackjack?" 

Ian tilted his head down to kiss Mickey, long and slow, before he answered. 

"Nah, but I'm good at poker," he told him. "Though if we're in some fancy hotel with room service you might have trouble getting me to leave." 

He kissed Mickey again before he could answer, even longer this time, his hand cupping the back of Mickey's head. Fuck, he was _happy._ "Don't forget money for a flight," he added. "I ain't taking a train that far. Fuck, I've never even flown before."

"Oh, we're flying," Mickey said. "Dibs on a window seat. I've never been on a plane, either." 

He patted the side of Ian's face. "Come on, you made me a pizza that we gotta eat and then we gotta make good use of the fact that you clearly got rid of Mandy so we could bang." 

"Got it in one," Ian said, giving Mickey's ass a love tap that made Mickey grin, mostly involuntarily. 

"Can you fucking believe this?" Ian asked a minute later when they both had plates full of food, sitting probably too close to each other, kitty-corner, even though there was a whole table to sit around. Mickey's foot was tucked behind Ian's ankle under the table, comfortable and electric-warm. "Married, a not-too-shitty apartment, planning our anniversary in motherfucking Vegas. This is - " 

He paused and leaned back in his chair, obviously about to say something a little emotional and equally obviously not entirely comfortable with it. "This is good, what we have. It's, um. Real good, Mick." 

Mickey watched Ian for a moment, then reached across and took his hand.

"It's pretty fuckin' great," he said. "Considering all the shit we've been through, I think we're due. You know? Maybe we just get to be happy for a while."

He was silent for a second, but clearly not done. "I didn't even have a single second where I didn't wanna take the money," he said finally. "You know, on principle, because it was Terry's. I just thought, yeah. He fuckin' owes me. I don't want anything from him, but since Sandy redistributed all his shit, I'm good with it. I'm okay." 

"Good," Ian said, stroking his thumb back and forth over Mickey's knuckles. "Might be different if he'd have, like. Left it for you all. You know? Because then it would be, like, fuck you, you were an asshole, this doesn't make up for it. But since you know he planned to use all the money on himself, it's sort of... the equivalent of pissing on his grave. And it's about damn time some good things start happening for you." 

Ian's life was far from perfect but it was a fairy tale compared to a lot of Mickey's. He deserved this, and more. "I think we're gonna make it this time, Mick. I do."

Mickey squeezed his hand tightly.

"We fuckin' better, Gallagher," he said. "If one more shitty thing happens - well, we'll handle it. That's what we do. But I'll seriously consider burning this whole fuckin' place to the ground." And then, to clarify: "Not the building. Chicago." 

"Well... we're Milkovich-Gallaghers. Shitty things are gonna happen. I just think we'll come out on the other side." So maybe it was optimistic. Did that matter? It made Ian think of Kev and V. In a lot of ways, they were who he aspired to be like. They made a lot of mistakes, and some bad shit happened. But they just loved each other so fucking much. And Kev wasn't afraid to say so, which Ian admired.

"We're going to Vegas, then we're gonna settle in and get our life into a routine,” he said. “And we're gonna take care of Mandy. Then someday, we'll have a house and a kid or two. And people are gonna be like, damn, I hope I have what they have."

"A house, huh? Lofty goals." Mickey tugged Ian's hand toward him a little, in a proprietary sort of way. _Mine now._ "I'm looking forward to Vegas. But, I don't know. I'm kind of looking forward to just having a normal life more. Can hardly fuckin' remember what that's like."

"Maybe just a little house," Ian mused. "Couple of bedrooms, kitchen big enough to make breakfast in together."

Ian had never really minded being gay beyond knowing he'd better keep it a secret in school. But he'd also never imagined a future with anything domestic in it. Now that he was getting it, he realized he'd probably wanted it all along. "We're gonna be better than what we grew up with. Breaking the cycle."

"You're a big fuckin' sap," Mickey decided, leaning over to kiss Ian's knuckles. He didn't sound like he minded. On a more serious note, he added, "And you're goddamn right I'm gonna be better than what I grew up with. I _love you_. Terry didn't love shit."

"And you'll be a good dad, too." Ian sounded earnest. It was clear that he had more to say, but he took his time getting the words out. 

"I would really like it if you'd keep me up to date on how Yev is, let me see pictures and things. If Svet says it's okay. But let her know that I'm giving you - and her - my word that if you ever want to see him, or if she ever is back around here and wants him to see you, that I'll stay away, I'll keep my distance. I'm not going to interfere at all with him knowing you're his dad."

Mickey could tell how difficult, even painful that was for Ian to say. He squeezed his hand tightly. "Yeah, I'll show you the pictures. And, you know, who knows. Maybe when he's a little older, we'll be able to talk her into letting us visit."

Mickey had an extremely tentative, tenuous relationship with fatherhood so far. He knew that both he and Svetlana were comfortable with their relationship the way it was, staying at a distance. But if Ian wanted to see Yev, then Mickey would try and make it happen. One day.

"Even if she never comes around, I want you to see him when you can, if you want to,” Ian said. “It's important that he know you." 

At one point, Ian had loved Yev as if he were his own, and that hadn't really changed. It would never not be painful to be cut out of his life, but he'd never keep Mickey from him. 

"We're gonna get you your own kid, okay?” Mickey said, surprisingly feelingly. “I promise. Not tomorrow or anything. But we'll track one down."

"We'll get a kid for both of us to love, not just for me," Ian corrected. "It'll be both of ours." 

"Yeah, I know." Mickey knew that Ian had very particular feelings about this, so he always tried to keep to himself the degree to which he was truly only entertaining the idea of having kids because of Ian. 

"You're gonna be a good dad, too," Mickey told him. "It's like helping people through your job - there's some shit you were born to do. Alright? So I don't want you to think Yev was your only shot." 

Ian nodded. He thought he _could_ be a good dad, but could and would were two different things. 

"And you wouldn't be afraid to have kids with me?" he asked Mickey. "I know that my meds really help but they don't guarantee I'll never have bad patches."

"I'm not afraid of doing anything with you," Mickey said, and meant it. "Everyone has bad patches. That's why you have me to pick up the slack."

He let go of Ian's hand to reach for another slice of pizza. "Eat your food," he commanded, "I'm not waiting all night for second dessert."

Ian grinned at him. Who knew how long it would last, but right now, he felt pretty fucking great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team, it has been an honour and a privilege reading all of your comments over these past couple of months and we appreciate every single one of you. If you check back on Monday for our regularly scheduled update, I will be posting a super fun little epilogue (we promise - it's much, much less heavy than this fic) and a mini Lip-centric ficlet set in this 'verse.
> 
> If you want to drop us a line or tag the fic in anything, we can be found on Tumblr at almost-a-class-act and happyschmuell. We mostly lurk, but to be fair, by Tumblr standards we are basically senior citizens. We are also... sort of working on a new story? But it'll be a minute.
> 
> Thanks again, and I hope you're all doing okay.


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